


Firefly

by Oparu (USSJellyfish)



Series: in the starry dark [2]
Category: Star Trek: Discovery
Genre: Cleveland "Book" Booker/Michael Burnham (minor), Found Family, Gen, Minor Hugh Culber/Paul Stamets, Mirror Philippa Georgiou/Christopher Pike (past), Unplanned Pregnancy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-04
Updated: 2021-03-02
Packaged: 2021-03-15 02:22:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 34,801
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28556085
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/USSJellyfish/pseuds/Oparu
Summary: Michael asks the Guardian of Forever if there's a timeline where Philippa can stay in the 32nd century, and there happens to be one, but it's a little different.A tiny, insignificant, barely worth mentioning, difference.
Relationships: Michael Burnham & Mirror Philippa Georgiou, Mirror Philippa Georgiou & Sylvia Tilly
Series: in the starry dark [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2117022
Comments: 65
Kudos: 90





	1. snowflake

**Author's Note:**

> I love pregnancy fic and sure, it's unlikely, but hey, it's still fun. This is mostly about family, how Philippa's child would very much be Discovery's child. So there's very very little romance (Michael and Book background, past Philippa/Christopher Pike, and that's really fun for a babyfic for me.
> 
> Huge thanks to Mariapurt and Verbumproxen for helping me with this. You're both wonderful and I couldn't do it without you.

_ Philippa _

"You have always been far greater than you can imagine, Michael." 

"So have you, Philippa." 

Michael raises her hand in a Vulcan salute, and this is it. The last moment she'll see her. 

"Wait." Michael stops, her hand still raised. 

What else can she wait for? They've said everything. She has to walk through or she'll die, here on this horrible planet. 

"Wait?" Carl- the Guardian of Forever- asks. 

Michael studies him. "You see every timeline, every possible outcome?"

"Yes."

"So in all of existence, every possible timeline, there's not one where she can stay here?"

"That doesn't end in a horribly painful, nearly immediate, death?" Carl toys with his cigar. 

Philippa looks towards the portal again. There's a whole universe out there. One where she'll live, but she won't know anyone. She'll have lost the whole strange little family here she shares with Michael. 

Philippa wants to live, but she doesn't want to go. Michael knows that. 

"She'll die," says the Guardian of Forever, this small strange man in an impossible hat.

"Of course she will, so will I, but will she die of her atoms flying apart in every timeline? Every universe?" Michael asks, trust her to find a loophole. That Vulcan logic is infuriating but useful. 

He laughs, looking at Michael then at Philippa. He thinks for a moment and then nods. "There's one timeline where she can stay here with you in this present. Just one."

Philippa takes one step back from the portal, not ready to believe. "Is it bad?"

"Good or bad is entirely relative. You'll live, and you'll be together, which is what you want."

Michael reaches out and touches her wrist. "What's going to change?"

"A very small thing, tiny really, but it's enough. Funny how something infinitesimal can ripple outward, like one of these snowflakes. It falls somewhere else and suddenly everything's different."

"She won't die from this?"

"Not from her atoms being ripped apart. You'll have to go together, of course, reset both of you."

Michael nods and reaches for her hand, pulling her back. "All right."

"All right?" Philippa repeats, staring at this version of her daughter. The other Michael would have fought for her, with her, against her, she can't be sure any more. This Michael fights with her mind. 

"You and I go through together, and then we'll be in a new timeline," Michael says. "One where you get to stay."

"It won't be easy," the Guardian warns, placing his cigar back in his mouth. 

"It never is."

"I'll admit that I'm curious to see how it works out. This particular variation is one of the more interesting quirks of the universe." He waves at the portal and it flashes white for a moment, then settles. "Good luck to both, all, of you, I suppose." 

Michael touches her fingers, takes her hand. Philippa allows her grip on her hand to stay, strange as it is, and they walk through. Light takes them, changes them, does whatever the hell a mystical portal in the middle of the snow does. 

Then they're back on Discovery, standing in the armory where they left. Just like she appeared on her shuttle, now she's here on the deck in the armory. Snow still clings to her boots and melts in her hair. Her fingers are numb from cold on the planet, but it doesn't seem real now. None of it does. Maybe she's already died. 

Michael looks at her, smiles, chuckles a little as Philippa releases her hand. "We're back here?"

Is it the same moment they beamed down? Has time passed? Saru and Tilly are gone but the room looks the same. At least, it does until her vision starts to blur, fuzzing grey around the edges. The stab wound is gone, isn't it? She doesn't still have the dagger in her neck.

Michael lifts her wrist, studying her bracelet's green light. From Michael's perspective, she's worn it barely more than a few hours, but Phulippa's had it for months: her reminder of a better world while she tried to remake the one of her birth. 

Exhaustion creeps over her, crawling up from her numb feet. Dizziness follows that in a wave. She takes half a step back, wavering in a way she'd never allow back- Philippa can't say home, because it's not home anymore. 

Maybe this is home now.

Her head swims, and she touches her neck, checking her fingers for blood, but she's whole, just dizzy like she's started bleeding out. 

Michael pulls her closer, hands catching her arms. "You okay?"

Philippa blinks, trying to find her center. Is she just tired? What's happening? The Guardian said she wouldn't die of having her atoms pulled apart. Is she dying of something else? Why does it feel like she's already bled out? It's not nothing. "I'll be fine."

"This is green," Michael says with relief, smiling so easily. "But you're really pale, let's get you checked out." She holds her elbow for a moment. "Maybe Dr. Culber can find what's different."

"I've traded crippling pain for a headache, if that's all it is--" she trails off, swallowing her hatred of Sickbay. 

"Cross your fingers." Michael taps her commbadge, taking them to sickbay in the flash of the transporter. 

Somehow the transporter makes her lightheadedness blossom into full-blown dizziness, still like she's been stabbed and hasn't found the wound, Philippa touches her shoulder again, rubbing where her daughter's dagger had been. Her Michael had tried to kill her, but this Michael frets about her every wince.

She stumbles forward, her feet unsteady. Michael grabs her tighter, holding her upright. 

"Hang on to me, you've been through a lot. We don't know what's changed, but Dr. Culber will figure it out." Michael holds her arms, solid, stable, so very determined. Philippa can't let go of the idea that she's dying, that the green on the bracelet is a lie.

She was dying a moment ago. So was Michael, but that was another Michael. Another universe, another time. Now she's here, still, but she doesn't know how long. Can't trust that it's real, but the last place was, wasn't it? Michael feels real. 

"Back towards the bed," Michael says, guiding her over. "Just hang on to me. I've got you." 

Her hands are gentle, her eyes are warm, concerned: everything the other Michael wasn't. This strange, familiar universe has a better version of her daughter, because the one she just left would punish her for this weakness. Michael would take advantage, and start plotting her own reign. Philippa wouldn't even blame her. 

"Dr. Culber?" Michael calls, summoning him from the other part of sickbay. He hurries in, surprise making his eyes wide. 

"How did you--?"

"We passed through," Philippa says, holding on to Michael tighter as her knees buckle. At least, she thinks so, her limbs are so cold. 

"You did," Michael says, easing her towards the biobed, taking her weight. "You passed the test."

"The test?" Culber asks, helping lift Philippa up. 

Michael helps remove her leather coat, lying it on the biobed nearby. She unzips her own, peeling it off her shoulders. 

"Your hands are freezing," Culber complains, removing the bracelet from her wrist. "I don't know how you got this to green."

"It was snowing." Something hot creeps up her neck, and her vision greys further. She should be dying twice over, but she hasn't been stabbed and her atoms aren't flying in all directions. 

The biobed protests, beeping angrily behind her head. Michael stands next to her, steady and sure. She leans against her shoulder, focusing on the smell of leather and snow. 

"You're hypotensive," Culber says, running his flashing little scanner around her head. "I'm reading vasodilation, low blood glucose, dehydration, but your atoms are nearly all staying put. I don't know how you managed that."

"Neither do we."

"However--" Then he stops, just stops still, not finishing his sentence, not telling her how bad she is of a patient, not joking. It's like he can't process what he's seeing.

Michael's hand touches the back of her neck, warm through her hair. She follows his eyes and then halts. "Oh."

"Both of you stop being cryptic and tell me." Maybe she's dying after all and Carl's little reprieve didn't stick. But that doesn't seem right. She doesn't feel like she did. The pain is gone, this is more annoying. 

"Philippa--" Michael's voice breaks, and she holds her closer, hugging her suddenly.

"He promised I wouldn't die." 

"You're not dying." Her voice is thick, rough, like it's caught in her throat. 

Philippa forces her eyes open, lifting her head from Michael's shoulder. The readings are behind her and if they won't tell her, she'll read it herself. She starts to turn, trying to get a look but her head swims. 

"Careful."

She hates being careful.

"Your atoms aren't going anywhere, like he said, but be gentle. You're going to feel s little off for awhile." Michael shakes her head, and her eyes are wet, liquid. Tears cling to her eyelashes and run down her cheek. If she's not dying, then what? 

"Michael--" Philippa brushes her face, staring at the tears on her fingers. "Why are you crying?" 

"Really, it's the opposite of dying." 

"Now you sound like him." 

"Who?"

"Carl," Philippa scoffs. "My strange little judge and his cryptic exploding doorway. What is it?"

"It's small, he was right about that."

"I'll strangle you myself if you don't start making sense." 

Michael points up at the biobed, then reaches forward, touching her stomach. No one touches her stomach. No one looks at her like that. No one would dare, but Michael is beyond such things. "You're pregnant." 

Turning back to look at the biobed, Philippa moves her head too quickly and nearly passes out, blackness overwhelming her vision. "No."

"You and the embryo are healthy, but your hormones, blood pressure, heart rate: they're all different. It'll take time to adjust. ."

She opens her mouth but she doesn't have words, not even to protest. This isn't happening, but she's already gone through a door that doesn't exist, spent months in an alternate pocket of reality and died, again. What can she say? How can she put words to this, any of it? She failed her Michael, failed her daughter, she'll fail this child too. Might as well end it now, spare everyone the suffering.

But she  _ wants _ . She can't help thinking of Michael on the rubbish heap, eyes defiant even then. Later, much later, Michael loved her, in her way. She clung to her and smiled, laughed. Philippa loved that, adored her daughter, and she threw it away.

For Lorca.

He's dead, he's long dead, but Michael's betrayal still aches like the dagger's lodged in her flesh. Yet here, now, in this place, Philippa tightens her arms around Michael's shoulders holding her close for a moment. A moment is all she dares, then she pushes her away, tries to sit up on her own. She almost manages.

A small change, Carl said. Something minute, that she wouldn't even notice. 

At first. 

All doors open as a crack. The first hint of sunrise is a sliver. 

"I never--"

"You don't have to decide now."

It's not a decision. Where she came from, she would never have dared. It's too much weakness, too much vulnerability, but here, she hears Michael telling her a vulnerability is not a death sentence. Here it's allowed. 

Michael pulls back a little, looking at her face, touching her cheek. "Take your time, think about if you want this?"

Philippa nods, resting her forehead against Michael's wearily. "It's not possible."

"Oh, it's possible, " Dr. Culber says, touching her hand. "I don't know how you came back with months worth of bio data points on your bracelet. You weren't pregnant when you left, and according to this you weren't until about ten minutes ago..." He trails off, at a loss, and shrugs. "Your blood pressure's low, but that's common during early pregnancy, and you'll need to take it easy until I can do some more tests. The computer and I will go over this bio data. There's nothing wrong with the computer, and if you encountered a time portal, anything could be possible."

"We seem to have made a minor change to the timeline." Michael touches her cheek again, still crying, but she smiles and it lights up the room. "A very small change."

"An microscopic change?" Culber jokes. "According to this data, and the scans here, the embryo is healthy, about six weeks old, and its atoms are aligned with this universe. Philippa's atoms are realigning with it, somehow."

"And she's all right?"

"Yeah," he shrugs again, smiling. "I have no idea how, but you're all right, so is the baby." 

That makes it so much more real, almost too much so. Philippa starts to move her hand to her belly and stops. She won't, she can't, so she touches Michael's hand instead. 

"A tiny thing," Michael says, smiling. "Guess that answers that riddle."

"I hate riddles." Her head swims, her chest's too tight, and she can barely get her eyes to stop stinging. She loathes this weakness with most of her being, but some small part of her wants to share Michael's giddy little smile. "You can stop smiling."

Holding up her hands to help guide her down from the biobed, Michael softens, hiding her smile. "Sorry."

She's healthy enough to leave sickbay, and that's something. 

Dr. Culber returns with another bracelet. "Okay, new monitor, just to make sure your atoms are realigning properly Try to stay in this timeline, please."

She nods, still at a loss for words. 

"Rest and food," he orders Michael, as if he can tell Philippa's not listening. She's not even sure she can. "No strenuous anything. Stay out of the gym for a couple days, no getting beat up on away teams, read a book, watch some holos. It will take time to adjust. This is new."


	2. trust

Michael nods, then beams them to her quarters. Philippa sits on the sofa, rubbing her hands as the feeling comes back into them. The rest of her needs more than circulation to feel normal. 

Michael puts Philippa's coat away in the closet, hanging her own over a chair. Walking to the bedroom, opening drawers, and digging through Philippa's clothes, she turns, holding a black leather corset. "Do you have anything that's not black leather?"

"Why would I?" Philippa stands near the table, staring at her quarters. She reaches up and unzips her jumpsuit. Even though the planet was cold, she's sweaty and the leather clings to her skin. 

Michael tosses her Starfleet issue pajamas at her. The black and red ones that Philippa is becoming oddly fond of. 

"These are hideous."

"Well, they were on the top of the drawer, you want fancy silk things, you pick them out."

Philippa strips, putting on the Starfleet pajamas as if she's donning a new kind of armor for a different world of dangers. "They're not that uncomfortable, even if the color is questionable."

Michael puts her hands on her hips. "I don't know if I've seen you wear a color." Michael's incessant hovering is interrupted by the chime of the door. 

Book stands in the corridor, holding dinner from the mess hall. He drops it off with a tiny smile. He kisses Michael goodbye and that gives her plenty to tease Michael about.

"So you kiss goodbye now?"

Michael shrugs, then smiles. "We have for a while."

"How long of a while?" 

"Sit," Michael says, pointing at the table. 

"If you tell me when you and Book started kissing goodbye."

"It just started to happen and it's nice--" Michael pulls out her chair and taps it, insistent that she come and eat. "Why are we talking about me?." 

"Why not you?"

"Why not..." Michael sits down across from her, picking up her spoon, eyebrows raised. "You're pregnant."

The word still doesn't make sense. It doesn't sink in. Dying was easy to believe. Flying apart at the atoms, being stabbed: those things make sense. Getting sent away to another part of the timeline or yet another universe, that she expected. This--

Her hand shakes a little as she puts her napkin on her lap. Michael reaches across the table, touching the back of her hand. It's kind, warm and soft, everything she expects from Michael. She would have hated it, slapped her hand away, pulled back, now it's comforting. The warmth of Michael's fingers is welcome, even if she doesn't know what to do with it. 

"It's okay to be afraid."

"I am not afraid."

"And I'm not really enjoying having sex with Book." Michael offers that with a smile, and it's definitely to distract her, but Philippa appreciates it. 

"Your space courier has other skills?"

"He does, and it's wonderful, actually," Michael sips her water, beaming. "Really wonderful. How was-" she gestures down towards Philippa's lap. "Whoever?"

She takes a bite of her curry laksa, pleasantly surprised that Book knew to bring it. Michael must tell stories, and he listens. It's hard not to like him. "Whoever?"

"You haven't talked about anyone."

Philippa toys with her spoon, then smiles innocently. "Do we talk about our lovers?"

"You seem to want to talk about Book."

"And you're all about fairness."

Michael laughs over her food. "Yes, Philippa, for fairness."

Wiping her mouth, Philippa sets down her spoon. "I can't believe you waited this long to ask."

"I was trying to be polite."

"And now you've given up that charade?"

Michael studies her, her brown eyes soft and curious. "Unless you don't want to tell me for some reason."

"I'm not embarrassed."

"Can you be embarrassed?"

Philippa takes a bite, shutting her eyes as the spice fills her mouth, then swallows. "Pike."

Michael smiles over her own spoon. "Captain Pike? Not someone from over there?"

"Over there?" she repeats, shaking her head. "No, Pike was the last one, about six weeks ago, give or take traveling 900 years into the future." She stares past Michael for a moment, remembering how it felt to back him into the wall. "I should call him Chris, I suppose, he wanted me to call him Chris."

"And?"

"And I did, though "captain" definitely got more of a rise out of him in bed."

Michael chokes on her water, nearly spitting it across the table. "That I didn't need to know."

"Yet you asked."

"Now you'll tell me that he was--"

"He was very-" Philippa pauses, trying to come up with the right words. She was in Chris' bed what feels like a lifetime ago. Technically, it was almost a millennium. "Thoughtful."

Michael lifts her spoon, smirking. "Why do you say that like it's a bad thing?"

"It was not a bad thing," Philippa presses her lips together, searching for words, trying to explain it. "It was different, sex is very different here."

"I bet." Michael sets down her spoon for a moment and studies her across the table. "My captain didn't date men often, not that she mentioned."

Philippa nods, sitting back in her chair. Dr. Culber might have been right. She's much less dizzy now that she's eaten something. Not that she'll let him know; he'll be too smug. "I read that."

"You read it?"

"I read all of her journals, Michael. I had to be her."

"You were not, not really." 

Philippa scoffs and finishes her water. "I was close enough for most people, very few knew her as well as you did." She did a very good job pretending to be her boring, uptight counterpart for more than a year. 

Now at least she can be honest and not pretend to be good Captain Philippa Georgiou. Everyone here knows who she is and where she came from, and this Starfleet at least sees that as useful. 

Michael fills her glass again. "Drink, Dr. Culber says you were dehydrated."

She rolls her eyes. "I'm fine." 

Michael shakes her head, collecting their lunch dishes and setting them to one side. "Totally fine, completely fine, you didn't just go through an impossible experience that lasted months in less than a minute and find out you're in a new timeline where you're pregnant." 

"Shut up." Philippa retreats from the table, but takes her water glass with to the sofa, setting it on the coffee table. She shuts her eyes and leans back, rubbing her temples. 

Sitting down beside her, Michael holds up her hands. "Let me."

"What are you going to--"

"Trust me." Michael makes it sound so simple, so easy. Trust is the most difficult, dangerous thing in the universe, and yet, here she is. Her daughter asked her to trust, and she couldn't, but here- here she can. 

When this Michael asks her to trust, it's absolutely believable. Michael's fingers run up the back of her neck, easing the tension along her spine. Her daughter, the other Michael, used to wrap her arms around her neck and tackle her, laughing, but that was decades ago and a universe away. That Michael decided to kill her, and this one wants to mother her. 

"You know, Captain Pike's a good man."

"He's attractive, intelligent, I suppose he has acceptable genetics."

Michael stops rubbing her neck and chuckles behind her shoulders. "I'm glad he's acceptable."

"It wasn't my intention to reproduce with him, but he's a good choice." Philippa turns, pulling up one of her knees and hugging it to her chest. "I'm surprised your contraceptives here are so unreliable."

"They're usually very reliable, especially if you get the shots on time. The chance of failure is remote, but not perfect." Michael smiles at her, tentatively moving a strand of her hair back over her shoulder. "If you got yours on time, Captain Pike might have been behind, or they just failed."

"Obviously." Putting her leg back down, she rubs her temples again. "You can spare me the absurdly small mathematical chance of contraceptive failure, it'll just make me annoyed."

Michael touches her shoulder, gentle and warm. "Perhaps there's something about you being from one universe and him being from this one, or if there's an infinite number of timelines, there just happens to be one where everything lined up, so to speak."

"One in a million?"

"You didn't want the exact number."

"I still don't." 

Michael touches her, again, her hand on her shoulders. Philippa forces herself not to stiffen. Maybe it's because she almost died or left or Michael's just protective, but she doesn't let go. "How do you feel about it?"

"About what?"

Michael rolls her eyes. "Really?"

"Where do you want me to start, Michael? They're dead, they're all dead, and feelings are just a distraction. Further weakness." Pike, Michael, her world is dead. If she was even there, and the rest of it is too tentative to mention. She can't say pregnancy, can't say baby, will not put words to this yet.

Michael sees straight through her, and her words slice through her defenses as if it's a dagger. "You know that's not true, start with your little firefly."

Her eyes sting. She's not going to cry, not now, not in front of Michael. They haven't talked about everything she saw in the other universe and all those stories remain trapped within her. Philippa takes a breath, trying to force herself calm. Make Michael talk, then she won't have too. 

"Firefly?"

Michael takes her hand and squeezes it, and she's starting to enjoy that warmth. "I asked Amanda once what it was like to be pregnant, the way kids do, and she said Spock was like a little firefly at first, bouncing off the sides of the jar. It's stupid, but it's the first thing I thought of."

She's so grateful to have her, this Michael, her all-too-heroic, kind, far too gentle Michael. Philippa's never understood gratitude, never wanted to deal with her softer emotions. They were too dangerous, but now, maybe they're not. 

"You hate it."

Philippa sighs, shaking her head, blinking her feelings away. "I don't hate it at all."

"You are getting soft."

"Maybe I was, have been, and I just haven't--" She fights back her tears again, coughing to clear the lump in her throat. "When she was a child, my Michael had night terrors at first, and I'd hold her down, but when I let her walk, she'd go outside the palace into a field of fireflies. She'd watch them and calm. I'd carry her back to bed, and she'd sleep."

She takes a breath. It almost feels like a betrayal to expose Michael's secrets, but she's long past that. "I missed it when it stopped."

Michael has to wipe at her own eyes now, and she wraps her hands tighter into Phiippa's when she's done. "I used to have terrible nightmares, on Vulcan, when I first went to live with Sarek and Amanda. I'd wake up screaming."

"My Michael would fight me every night." 

Michael looks at her, studying her with surprise growing on her face. "Amanda used to fill my room with fireflies, holographic, Vulcan doesn't have them, but she thought they might help."

"You never told me that."

"Funny how much of me and her overlaps."

Philippa takes a halting breath. The other Michael's eyes went dark in the brig. She was hard the way this one is gentle. "And how much doesn't."

Michael wraps an arm around her shoulder, pulling her in again. Philippa stiffens. She has resented this Michael's softness, even snapped at her on the way to the portal, but Michael forgives her. This universe is the forgiving one. 

Michael lifts her hands, tilting her head in that obnoxious xenoanthropologist way. "What happened to your neck?"

"What?"

"You keep protecting it. Tensing up."

"You watch too much." Philippa stands up, pacing in front of the sofa. "It's nothing."

"You touched it several times, like you thought you were wounded." 

She shuts her eyes, choosing between the truth and her defenses. Michael won't stop pestering and maybe she doesn't want her to.

"What happened during your test?" 

"I went home."

"The empire," Michael says, then corrects herself. "Your empire."

"It didn't go well."

"You were stabbed?"

"By you." Philippa paces in front of her then stops, looking away before she meets Micahel's eyes. "And not you."

"I know." Michael nods, patient. "It's hard when it's the same face, isn't it?"

"You're not her, I know the differences between you are immeasurable, but I--"

Michael interrupts, teasing. "Am a cantankerous, prickly, impossible person who does not know how to deal with any signs of caring."

She glares. "What happened to all the nice things you said on the planet?"

"You were leaving forever, it was a moment." Michael's tone remains light, but there's so much weight in her eyes. 

"The moment seems to have passed."

Michael holds up her hands, as if proving she's unarmed. "You lived, so sit down."

"No."

Michael smiles and makes the request again. "Come on, sit down."

"I'm fine--" she scoffs, shaking off the idea, but Michael persists. 

"You're pacing, not resting. You're going to tell me about what you saw through the door."

"Michael--"

"You are going to tell me, because you need to talk about that, or the baby, because both is too much even for you to hold onto. You don't want to talk about being pregnant so logically, talk about the former."

She hasn't- she may never have placed this much trust in a person, not San, or her own murderous daughter, but things are changing. Ripples run outwards from a single snowflake in a cloud until a whole field is buried in snow. Philippa looks at Michael one more time and sits, hands on her thighs. 

"I walked through the door," she begins, then sits back. "Then I was back on the other Discovery, Killy was there, that Captain Tilly, not yours, and everyone saluted and I was me again."

"The Emperor."

"I thought I hid it, but I didn't realize how much even my perception of myself had changed" She turns a little, staring at her hands, toying with her rings. "I had to remember how to be Emperor, how to rule."

"Maybe that's not you any more." 

Philippa leans her head back, staring at the ceiling. "How can that not be me? That's who I am."

"I don't know. Maybe you do." 

Why is everything she says so infuriating? Because she's right? It's that Vulcan smugness, but she can't hate Michael's smile. 

"I wanted it to be right. I wanted to be home." Philippa fidgets with the sleeve of her shirt, staring out at her quarters: the paper book Michael brought her to read when she first arrived, her holographic candles and trinkets. She didn't choose the furniture or design the bedroom, and she doesn't have the finest silks, or slaves to wait on her. 

Michael turns toward her, looking at her with that infinite patience. "But it wasn't home?"

"I tried to be Emperor, but Michael was who she has always been and Saru was useful and I don't think I saw either of them before."

Michael reaches out again, touching her wrist. "It cuts right through you to see him like that, doesn't it?"

"It used to feel right." Philippa looks down at Michael's hand, then reaches over, touching her briefly. "There was an order to everything." 

Michael hands her the glass of water, always fussing. "And what did you do to that order?"

"I thought I was being careful, making small changes, trying to make things better, more stable, preserve the Empire so that Michael could inherit something real. But I stopped serving Kelpien in the Imperial kitchens, and I was foolish." She finishes the last of her water and stares at the empty glass. "I told Saru about vaharai. I stopped him from culling himself. He tried to save me."

Michael listens. She closes the distance between them on the sofa, fills her water again and listens. She can't understand what it was like. She's seen that world, but not been in it. Michael could never understand what the Empire really is, what that universe is, and as much as Philippa will always love her daughter, this version is easier to live with.

She stops and starts, and has to explain so many things about the other universe that it doesn't seem to be a coherent story at all. 

Somehow, Michael follows it. "No wonder you looked so surprised to see me."

"What?"

"When you woke up on the planet, you were so jumpy."

"You'd just stabbed me."

Michael raises her eyebrows, and her hands, smiling. "I had done no such thing."

"You hadn't."

"But I get it." Michael tilts her head towards the bed. "Come on, you can hate it, but you should lie down. Rest "

She didn't take the nap Dr. Culber wanted, but she feels lighter, as if saying it aloud unburdened her. She stands, following Michael to the bed without resistance. "I don't know what I was thinking. My Michael grew up there, she lived in that world, she hadn't seen what it could be like. She didn't know hope. I couldn't--"

"It's not your fault."

"My daughter tries to kill me and you say it's not my fault?" Philippa leans back against the headboard, rubbing her eyes. 

"I hear it's the thing to do, kill your own mother." Michael sits beside her, then touches her shoulder and Philippa tenses again. She doesn't want to, she hates that somehow it's tender, but her body holds onto what happened. 

"I don't know who would have told you that."

"I'm sure she was exaggerating."

"That's what I thought," Michael teases back, touching her neck. 

Michael's fingers rest warm against her spine, and she doesn't flinch this time. Must be too tired now. Philippa yawns into her hand, and leans over, almost on Michael's shoulder when she pulls up her legs onto the bed. 

"Who is San?" Michael asks after the silence has grown.

"What?" Philippa has to blink herself more awake to face the question. 

"You mentioned them, before, and in sickbay. Who are they?" 

"San was a friend," she replies. "Maybe the last person I was close to before Michael. We met before I was emperor, when I was just a soldier."

"I'm sure you were never just a soldier."

"Is that a compliment?"

Michael touches her shoulder. "I've never doubted your combat skills." 

"Because they're useful."

"You helped me save Book, saved the ship. Turned Leland into goo. All useful."

Philippa chuckles a little, then yawns again. She's not ready to sleep because the inevitable dreams will be more exhausting than trying to stay awake, but she's closer to just giving in.

"I thought about you a lot while I was a courier," Michael says, offering another subject. "You're right, this future is more like your universe, harsher, and I'd get all tangled in the Starfleet way, and then I'd have to find a way to do it differently."

"A less sanctioned way?" She tries not to yawn again and fails. Anyone else she'd banish, but she hasn't heard everything about Michael's year alone. There hasn't been time. 

"Exactly." Michael keeps talking, telling her how she and Book started working together, how they fought their way through this messy future of scarcity and death. 

Shutting her eyes, Philippa listens until she's asleep. She didn't realize she was until Michael's not telling a story, she's speaking to Book in whisper. How long has she been asleep? 

"I'm going to sleep on the couch, I want to make sure she's okay."

"You hover, I'll see you in the morning. Grudge is going to take your place in bed."

Michael laughs a little. "Will I get it back?"

"I don't know. She's the queen." 


	3. contrast

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Michael tries to help Philippa cope (which goes about as well as expected). Saru, Admiral Vance and Michael talk about the events on the planet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> many many thanks to Sha and Maria for helping me with the many drafts of this chapter. I haven't worked this hard on a fic in a long time and it's wonderful.

_ Michael _

She talks long after Philippa's fallen asleep on her shoulder. Perhaps she keeps talking to make sure Philippa remains asleep, or maybe she says things to say them out loud because only Book knows most of them. Some of the bleak, harsh, hopeless things she saw as a courier are too dark to tell Tilly, but Philippa won't care, even if she was awake. 

When her breathing is slow and even and she's limp against her shoulder, Michael slips out from under her, easing her down onto the bed. She watched her captain sleep in the back of a shuttle once. marveling at how she just shut off when she needed to, but was awake the moment the shuttle's engines changed from warp to impulse. Her captain had so much presence that when she was just her, only Philippa, she felt like a different person. 

It's a sharper change for this Philippa, but Michael's seen her be amused. She even laughed with the crew and ate popcorn on movie night. This is her home as she lets go of the armor she's built.

She half expects Philippa to wake up and threaten her when she places a blanket over her. Maybe even wake up screaming; Michael would, if she'd just been back in that other universe, but Philippa must be so exhausted that she sleeps through. 

The sofa isn't a bed but it's comfortable enough that Michael doesn't wake until morning. The ship reports it's past oh six hundred and she has a duty shift in a few hours. She can alter it, of course, but Philippa must need time with her thoughts, time to adjust to the idea of change, let alone begin to accept the potential baby. Michael can check in with her after work. 

She leaves a note on the PADD on the table, promising to return with breakfast and reminding Philippa to stay out of the gym. They can run through some tai chi poses or slow walk some sparring if it'll keep Philippa sane. She's not really sure what the former Emperor might find distracting enough. Captain Philippa had a weakness for period drama holonovels, which might work. They're probably very different from Philippa's universe, though some of them are bloody enough she might enjoy them. 

Michael picks up congee, toast, melon and tea from the replicator. Tilly and Saru are already on the bridge and it's too late in the day for her to see anyone else she's close enough to stop and talk to. Book would be nice, but he'll be on his ship. She could head past the shuttlebay, but he'll still be there when Philippa's ready to be alone. 

Tapping the override, Michael lets herself back in and sets the tray on the table. Philippa's quarters are still dark, and she silently crosses to see if she's still asleep. The _Discovery_ guest quarters are not that different from her Captain Philippa's quarters back on the _Shenzhou_. She'd brought her food, years ago, when that Philippa had come down with a nasty strain of Tarkelean flu after a diplomatic conference. 

Those three days had been the first time Michael had been officially acting Captain, from the moment Philippa let Michael take her to Sickbay until Philippa had officially taken the conn back. Though she had joked about letting Michael keep it a few more days. Being in charge while Philippa was off the ship was one thing, nerve wracking as it was. Being Captain while she was on the ship, just not currently capable of being captain, had an extra layer of anxiety because any mistake would just mean she'd take the chair back, even sick as she was. 

Michael tiptoes towards the bed, and it's empty. The blanket she draped over Philippa lies alone, crumpled into a heap on top of the bed. She listens, searching the room, then notices Philippa's bare foot resting on the carpet outside the bathroom. 

"Morning," Michael begins, standing in the doorway. She crouches down, sitting on the floor across from Philippa, who sits with her head on her knees, arms folded. Her long hair spills over her arm, and Michael reaches over to pull it to one side. "You okay?"

"No," Philippa mutters to the floor more than Michael. 

"Did you sleep all right?"

Philippa nods once, slowly, then she stops moving her head. She takes a shallow breath, hissing a little.

Michael crosses her legs, getting comfortable across from her. She'd read most of the medical database on pregnancy last night after Philippa went to sleep. She'd been hoping Philippa would get lucky and skip this part. "Are you nauseated?"

"I'm sitting here for the view."

"Do you want me to summon Dr. Culber?"

Philippa lifts her head enough to snap. "So he can hold my hand?" 

"There are medications that can help."

"I'm fine." She stands slowly, moving into the light and there's a sheen of sweat on her hairline. Her eyes have dark circles below them and she holds the wall for a moment before shoving away. 

"It's okay to let him help you." Michael gets to her feet.

Philippa shakes her head, holding herself stiff and straight. 

Michael changes the subject, trying to think of something to say, something to distract her. "Did you read the captain's journals from the Elus VI mission?"

Philippa takes a step away from the wall, but stops again. She nods once, lips flattened together. "I read all of them."

"This would be when she had Tarkelean flu."

Philippa makes the smallest nod, not bothering to speak. 

Michael grabs for one of the towels under the sink. "I'd never seen her like that, she could barely stand up, and she'd let it get so bad before calling me. I'd never been acting captain either, not officially." She wets the towel, letting the water run cold. "We even handed over, with the computer calling me 'acting captain Burnham' and everything." 

She offers the wet towel to her, catching Philippa's eyes and waiting for her consent. Her gaze doesn't waver, so Michael touches her forehead and Philippa, miraculously, allows it. 

"Her journal said three days." 

She did read it then. Michael shakes her head, remembering. "Forty point three fever when she called me into the ready room. Headache, nausea--"

"What fun."

"She threw up in the corridor."

Philippa takes the towel from Michael's hands, then presses against her face, which is something. "On you?"

Michael glances at her feet, smiling. "Just my boots. She was so sick. I'd never... Some viruses just get you so fast." 

"You were--"

"Absolutely not ready to be captain, if you asked me then. Totally not. Freaked out because she'd be there and I'd make a mistake." Michael picks up a piece of toast and her cup of tea and stands near the table, not sitting yet. 

Philippa rests her hands on the back of the chair, leaving the towel on the table. She ignores the food, doesn't look at Michael, and stares at the floor. 

"She totally backed me into a corner. Goergiou was nearly delirious, and the ship--" Michael trails off and shrugs. "I don't know if I would have said yes if she'd asked me to be in charge for three days and I had a choice, so I'm kind of grateful it happened that way." 

Closing her eyes, Philippa manages a very faint smile. "Now I remember, she wasn't that sick."

"Oh?" Michael's smile in return is much warmer, but she's not about to throw up. She touches Philippa's shoulder, waiting for her to pull away, but she remains. 

"She exaggerated," Philippa murmurs, taking a breath before she raises her head. "I remember that."

"Never would have guessed." Michael smirks, setting down her tea and picking up the towel away. Gently moving Philippa's hair to the side, she places the towel on the back of her neck. "You should eat."

"No."

Chuckling a little, Michael shrugs. "It's supposed to help."

Philippa rolls her eyes. "How?"

Medical knowledge that doesn't involve death probably isn't covered in Terran training, or whatever their version of the Academy is. No reason to know anything about pregnancy at all if you don't intend on experiencing it. 

Michael circles her, taking her hair and lazily braiding it together. She's not going to say why, but it might make things easier if Philippa's about to be sick. "Dr. Pollard sent a list of articles, I read them last night. I learned that eating helps you be less nauseated."

"You read them all?" Philippa reaches back, brushing her wrist for a moment, her fingers cold and damp. 

Michael finishes the braid and takes a binder from her pocket. "I didn't think you would."

Philippa makes a noise that could be frustration, exhaustion, or perhaps she's just forcing herself not to throw up. 

"You should try eating."

Philippa returns her hands to the back of the chair, staring down again with more tension in her voice. "Tell me about being acting captain."

"What?"

"What did you do when you were captain? You never want to shut up, so talk, Michael." 

"I did a lot of paperwork," Michael starts, but she doesn't finish the thought. 

Philippa bolts from the table. She's so fast that Michael winces before following her back to the bathroom. Philippa rests her hand on her stomach for a moment, then grips the sink. Eating might have been an easier answer, but she never chooses the easy way. 

Michael clears her throat, then keeps talking, as if everything is fine. Totally normal conversation. "I knew being captain was a lot of bureaucracy. Georgiou loved her ship, and her crew was everything to her, but I know sometimes she'd get behind and stay in the ready room late, way too late, filling out reports and signing off on everything the scientists were doing. I didn't realize how much bureaucracy it really was until I had to do it.” 

Philippa coughs, and swallows hard. "She didn't-" she pauses, swallowing again, as if she can fight this off purely through will alone. "Didn't want you to think being captain was all glamour." 

Listening, watching her aches, stinging hot through Michael's chest in sympathy. "She was smart, and more devious than I thought. You know, that flu virus, it was the first time she actually did what Dr. Nambue wanted, without fighting him. He said she needed three days off to recover, she took them."

This Philippa coughs again, then vomits into the basin. She hits the sink once with her hand, then spits, clearing her mouth. Her breath comes fast, and her hand trembles a little on the sink. Michael reaches around her, filling a water glass and handing it to her. 

Philippa takes a sip, rinsing her mouth with a dubious expression. She spits that out and does it again. 

"It's usually blood, isn't it?"

"What?"

"You're much more accustomed to having your mouth full of blood."

"Aren't you?" Philippa snaps back but there's no bite to it. She takes another breath and swallows a tiny sip of water. She hands the glass to Michael and leans forward, careful as if she's not sure if her stomach is done. Philippa tries swallowing a larger mouthful of water and Michael's relieved until she heaves it up, sputtering. 

"Don't tell me how eating will help," Philippa says, her words rough like old gravel. She shoves Michael's hand away but there's no pressure in her hand. 

"I said eating, not drinking."

Philippa's glare could melt titanium.

Michael turns, leaning against the sink to look at her face. "Do you want to suffer or do you want to try something that will help?" 

Rolling her eyes again isn't no, but Philippa won't nod, or agree. 

"Dr. Culber can beam over an anti-emetic hypospray, or you could eat something. Might be nice to have something to throw up."

"I hate your optimism."

"No you don't." Michael leaves her for a moment and grabs a piece of toast from the table, wrapping it in a napkin. She returns and holds it up. "You haven't kicked me out."

"You're mildly entertaining."

That's actually kind, and Michael smiles at her, still holding the toast. "So Georgiou was exaggerating how sick she was so I'd take over?"

"She knew she was ill, tried to get as much done as she could, which is stupid," Philippa takes the toast and stares at it like it's rotting in her hand. "She knew she was about to be incapacitated, and she probably made herself worse trying to make your job easier."

"I don't doubt that."

"Stupid," Philippa says, reluctantly taking a bite. "She could have told you and you could have planned together, she knew you weren't going to kill her." 

"I suppose Tarkelean flu would have been a vulnerability."

"Only if she'd let herself get that sick," Phiippa snaps. 

"How do you not run out of captains?" Michael teases, folding her arms over her chest. "If they can't even get the flu--"

"If they're afraid of you enough, your crew won't dare move against you."

"I see," Michael nods, watching Philippa take another tentative bite. "Here it was kind of the opposite, everyone was so worried about her that they made everything easy for me. Science walked me through their reports, Engineering double checked their own inventory, Medical was so happy she was actually taking time to recover that Dr. Nambue filled in his own equipment request."

"They loved her."

"They did."

"And you, Michael," Philippa reminds her, lowering her head. 

Michael catches her toast before it hits the sink, but Philippa only coughs a little and doesn't vomit this time. 

"What?"

"Your crew loved you."

"I betrayed them."

"Did you?" Philippa might not cut so deep if she felt better, but there's some truth in it. 

"I took her away from them."

"Was that you or the Klingons?" Philippa presses her hand against her mouth, and swallows, still staring down at the sink. "She could have survived that battle."

"I can't blame her for her death."

Philippa lifts her head, meeting Michael's eyes. "You should stop blaming you."

There's almost caring in that, and Michael reaches for her arm. "Finish your toast."

* * *

"I genuinely thought she was not going to return to the ship" Saru says, standing at the head of the table in the conference room. "Though, I am pleased that she did not expire." He taps his badge, opening up Georgiou's medical file. "Dr. Culber's report states that she is no longer being pulled between universes and that her atoms are stabilizing in this time and universe."

Michael takes a seat, smiling. "Yes, she's no longer experiencing any symptoms of entropic failure. Got down to the wire there, but she's all right now."

"She may be all right physically, but the change in her condition is concerning." Something in his tone makes her pause. 

She's not defensive, not yet, but almost surprised. "Concerning, sir?" 

"I understand predators, Commander, and they are the most dangerous while defending their young."

She leans forward, resting her hands on the table. "She hasn't been dangerous, not to _Discovery_. She's been useful to the ship. We would not have defeated Control without her." 

"Yes, and she rescued Ensign Tilly and I after  _ Discovery _ crashed, and she did help you retrieve several prisoners from the Emerald Chain camp on Hunhao, however that was an unsanctioned mission you should not have been on." Saru pauses, pacing in front of the windows. "She has not shown a willingness to follow orders. A brush with death is not likely to change that."

Michael bristles a little, looking at her hands instead of up at Saru. "She wouldn't have gone to Hunhau without me."

"And that's part of what concerns me with her remaining on board. She follows your lead first, before the orders of the captain of the ship. This is fine as long as your priorities align with the ship, but when our mission conflicts with what you want to do, how do I know you won't take her on another unsanctioned mission?"

"Saru--" She swallows. Obviously, this is still a tender subject and she hasn't earned his trust back yet. 

"Considering her condition, she might be more comfortable on a colony world or at Starfleet headquarters instead of on a working starship." 

"Away from everyone she knows?" Michael asks, trying to keep her tone even. "She's made so much progress. Her experience on the planet was profound. I would struggle to explain it and I haven't heard the whole story from her yet, but I think it's safe to trust her, and at least give her the option to remain on the ship." 

"Of course you do," Saru says, taking his chair. "I appreciate that about you."

Michael starts to answer, but Admiral Vance beams in, a little late, but he's incredibly busy. 

Michael and Saru stand, waiting for him to sit before they sit again. 

"So your trip was successful?"

Michael nods, a little relieved he seems less worried than Saru. It still doesn't seem real that Philippa gets to stay, but she'll take the victory. "Georgiou and I encountered a non-corporeal being who referred to himself as Carl. He offered her a test, and when she passed he was able to make a slight change that would allow her to stay in this universe, at this time."

Vance drums his fingers on the table. "A non-corporeal being with that kind of power just happened to be there?"

"I believe he was going to move on after we left Dannus, sir. That planet is far out of range for any ships other than  _ Discovery _ . He seemed benevolent, mysterious. He spoke in riddles. We wouldn't have been able to find him at all if it wasn't for the sphere data." Vance will know she's not telling the whole truth, but she's been involved in enough time travel debriefings to want to avoid another one. The Guardian of Forever went to great lengths not to be left alone, and she'd like to help him remain that way. 

"Your sphere data's been useful before." Vance fixes his eyes on Michael. "So this test saved her life?"

"The test determined her worthy," Michael taps her badge, pulling up Philippa's medical records. "This being, Carl, returned us to  _ Discovery _ with a small change that made it possible for her to stay."

Vance raises his eyebrows. "Commander, I recognize a prenatal scan," Sitting back in his chair, he touches his beard. "She wasn't pregnant when you left?"

"No sir," Michael replies, hoping Vance can help her convince Saru. "That change appears to be enough to have realigned her molecules. The embryo is unremarkable otherwise, other than sharing the quantum signature of this universe." 

"So she's not going to fly apart on us?" Vance asks with a hint of smile. 

"No, Admiral, Dr. Culber believes she'll have no more trouble remaining at this place in space time."

"If she's content with this unusual development, then it's a positive one." Vance looks to Saru. "Does she want to remain on  _ Discovery _ ? It would be unorthodox, of course, but we live in difficult times." 

Michael forces herself to keep her tone level and optimistic. "She has changed, sir, not just molecularly. Carl is a being of incredible power who thought she had earned another chance, it sounds incredible, but most of what has happened to us is. I know she still has a long way to go--"

"An understatement," Saru interjects. 

Vance nods and his expression is still neutral. "Having a baby on a starship is not an easy thing, we could offer her a position as a security consultant, if she'd prefer to be on a starbase or colony."

Michael opens her mouth to argue, but Saru lifts a hand. "Even with her contempt for authority, I believe Georgiou will cause the least trouble on Discovery, sir, and Commander Burnham believes she can be useful."

Philippa won't want to leave, but maybe the Admiral can help her convince Saru to allow that to be an option. Michael takes a breath to center herself. Stay neutral. "She deserves a choice, sir, thank you." 

Saru looks to the admiral, his tone hesitant. "I am hesitant to agree to allow her to remain, Admiral, however, I am willing to be open-minded." 

Vance smiles and stands from his chair. "It's your ship, captain. Georgiou hasn't been a security risk, and as much as Kovich would like to study her, if she wants to stay here, I have no issue with it. I'm glad you were able to save your crew member."

"Thank you, sir. I would not have made that particular decision without your assistance."

"That's what I'm here for, Captain. To be your voice of regret before you have to have it." Vance nods to them both, reaching for his badge. "And please pass on my congratulations to her, a child is a blessing." 

"Thank you, Admiral." 

He beams away and Michael smiles at the view of headquarters through the window. She didn't think she'd like Admiral Vance, but she's pleasantly surprised by him more often than not. 

"Thank you, Saru, for being willing to offer her the option to stay." 

"Considering our last conversation was nearly cordial, I am hopeful she can retain that level of civility when not faced with a painful death." 

Michael touches his arm again and nods, relieved. "I appreciate that, Captain. I'll offer both options to her."

Saru touches her shoulder. "I would like to ask you to show your appreciation by not engaging in any more unsanctioned missions." 

Wincing a little, she nods, trying to keep her smile. She hurt him deeply with that, and she's going to have to keep working to regain his trust. Taking Georgiou along probably didn't help anything, but she'll have time to work things out with Saru if she decides to stay, they both will. She leaves the conference room and when the turbolift doors seal her in, she sighs in relief. Philippa can stay on _Discovery,_ she can continue on her journey with them, which is where she should be. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm really tempted to write a one shot with sick Captain Georgiou and Michael's first couple days as acting captain...poke me to do it, would you?


	4. maintenance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Michael leaves on the away team to the Verubin nebula and Philippa helps, just to keep herself busy, really. She's not helping helping.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> many many thanks to Sha, Maria and Tina for helping me draft and redraft this.

_ Philippa _

"You can't live on tea," Michael jokes, eyeing the mostly full bowl in front of Philippa. 

"Do you want to count my spoonfuls?" She says, then takes a bite. Congee usually tastes like nothing but this morning she can taste the hint of sourness from the replicated, and the way the texture is just a little off. She makes a face, but swallows. 

"Is it better today?"

Her first thought is to snap at Michael that her nausea is a constant misery and Michael's hovering only makes it worse, but it dies. "Marginally." she says, forcing herself to eat another mouthful. It's grown cold, and that's taken away the metallic aftertaste, but she can't think of anything else worth eating to trade this for. 

"If you eat more it'll help."

"You keep saying."

"You didn't throw up after you finished your toast yesterday." 

Philippa drags her spoon lazily across the surface of her congee. She nods, Michael can keep her optimism if she doesn't speak. She kept her lunch down for a time, until she didn't. 

Michael smiles over the table. "How did it go with Saru?"

"I didn't offend him." She takes another bite, mostly for Michael's benefit, but it's heavy in her mouth. "I will be deferential, as required."

"I'm glad you decided to stay on board."

She sets down the spoon and flexes her fingers, looking around the mess hall. They're not her crew, but their faces are all familiar. It's better than the alternatives. Philippa grabs her tea, because at least that she can stomach. "What's the point of all of this if I'm alone?" She means more than being off the shio, and Michael knows. Michael just needs to stop risking her life over and over. 

"Hey." Michael touches her other hand, squeezing her fingers. "I'll be fine. Saru, Culber and I, we'll be down to the planet and back before dinner." 

"Of course, dangerous missions always go as planned." She'd feel better if she could go on the away team, protect Michael herself, but the radiation is so high on that planet that the embryo wouldn't survive. She hates being trapped, and helpless, yet she's stuck with both. 

"This is important."

Rolling her eyes, Philippa sighs. "So is the only competent leadership on this ship."

"Eat and be nice to Tilly, it's tough the first time." Michael has too much heart, and that worries her on missions like this one. 

"Did you tell her about the arm of the command chair?" 

Michael smiles. "How did you know?"

"Your captain mentioned telling you." When she couldn't focus on anything else, she listened to more of the other Philippa's logs, arguing with her when she needed the distraction. She was conniving, in her way, and manipulative in the same way Michael is, bending her crew to her will with a smile instead of a dagger. 

"That trick got me through a lot."

"I can't believe your command chairs are all substandard, and they're not even built by slaves." 

Michael laughs and waves to someone. Philippa's in no mood for company but she'll never get rid of whoever Michael has just invited to join them. 

The least threatening acting Captain in the entire galaxy sits down across from her and next to Michael. She smiles at them both, but her nerves are bright in her eyes. Be nice, Michael said. 

Michael and Tilly start talking and Philippa lets her mind wander. Michael's right, she should try to eat more. Eating is an act of will more than any pleasure, but Michael is leaving the ship and she can help get her back. Hold the ship together so she can come home. 

When there's a pause in their inane conversation, she looks at Tilly and tries to soften her expression. "I'd like to help, captain." 

"Help?" Tilly repeats, looking to Michael before she gets herself together. "Help how?" 

Michael mouths engineering towards Philippa and she looks down, smiling. 

"I'm a good engineer."

"Stamets would appreciate--" Tilly stumbles and Philippa has to smile. 

"Reluctantly tolerate," Michael finishes for her. "Perhaps you should work with Reno, she makes him want to pull out his hair too."

"We'll need the help," Tilly says, poking at her breakfast burrito with a morose expression. "I can't believe you're both going."

"It's the best team for the mission, and you're the best choice for captain." Michael smiles with that look that can make anyone do anything. "We'll come home."

Thinking about Michael on that planet makes her stomach twist. Could be something else, but it's unpleasant enough that she crumples her napkin in her hand. 

"I should find Reno," she says, getting to her feet. She holds the table longer than she wants to, but it helps to have something solid. 

"Go to Sickbay," Michael says. 

Philippa could kill her, or slap her again. Either would probably make her throw up but this is hardly even subtle fussing. 

"I will do no such thing."

"Anti-radiation meds," Michael reminds her, with an unconvincing smile. "The whole crew needs them, better get them before work."

She's fussing. She can't help it but it rankles. Philippa rolls her eyes. She'll go but she won't comment. The bacon and eggs Rhys has on his tray smells strongly enough that she needs to be out of the mess hall and away from the smell, even though he's several meters away. 

How is that possible? Her sense of smell has never been this sensitive and it seems to have come at the worst time. She's acutely aware that Detmer and Owosekun have just left the gym when she passes their table and that bothers her. Every smell seems to. Maybe she should read those articles; asking Michael will just be frustrating. 

Tilly leans close to Michael, whispering something and of course it's about her, but at least she waited for her to leave the table. Michael looks at her for a moment but Tilly's eyes linger. The last thing she needs is Tilly's sympathy, but it might be annoyingly unavoidable. 

Lining up with the rest of the crew outside Sickbay, like cannon fodder, åreminds her of the mass inoculations they'd taken on their campaign to conquer Qo'Nos. Dr. Pollard is much kinder than any Terran physician would have been, talking to everyone, touching their arms with gentleness. It's inefficient. 

When it's her turn, between the child genius they picked up on Earth and Commander Reno, Dr. Pollard touches her arm and places the hypospray against her neck. The hypospray hisses and Dr. Pollard remains close, keeping her voice low. "Sometimes anti-radiation meds can make you nauseated. If you were nauseated before, which you were not--"

Philippa glares but Dr. Pollard's been frustratingly difficult to intimidate. "No, why would I be?"

Dr. Pollard keeps her face neutral. "Of course not, I don't know why I'm even saying this. This might make what is not happening worse. Come back if it's a problem." 

"It won't be." Philippa moves on, following Reno towards the turbolift with her stomach twisting. 

They're headed to engineering to help reinforce delicate parts of the ship, which feels like a futile effort considering the level of radiation in the Verubin nebula, but being a good Starfleet officer is following orders. They are as much an empire as her own, obsessed with rules and hierarchy, just dressed up in softer uniforms. There might be some small value in what they're doing, and she's relieved to be busy. Trying not to throw up alone in her quarters is dull and difficult. 

Fixing her eyes on the door in the turbolift, she keeps her hands at her sides. Working with Reno at least means that she won't be bothered with small talk, and she's competent. The turbolift ride is short, yet even the faint sensation of motion that gets through the inertial dampeners makes heat rise on her neck. 

A team in the corridor works on the secondary EPS conduits, welding conduit and manipulating programmable matter. It smells faintly of ozone, considering the battlefields, and places of squalor she's walked through, this is barely a smell, and yet it makes the back of her throat burn. 

ÅShe can force this down; she's worked through worse. This should be easy. She's fought with broken bones and blood running into her eyes, maybe this is difficult because it's boring. 

Stamets waits for them with his neurosis burning brighter than usual. "Reno, now that you're finally here, check the radiation shielding in the Cultivation Bay. The balance is very delicate and if the radiation from the nebula damages the spores we'll be fucked."

Reno smirks a little. "We'd be honored to work with your mushrooms."

He launches into a boring, unnecessary explanation of the instructions he has for them on a data padd. He sends it to Reno's commbadge, but Philippa doesn't have one, so she gets the 23rd century version. It's hardly complicated enough that she'll need to check, the ratios are simple calculations. He must be used to working with less intelligent officers. She'd argue with him, or tell him to shut up, but talking means she'll have to let go of some of the control that's keeping her stomach still, and she can't do that. 

"The spores are the most important part of the ship," he reminds them.

Reno rolls her eyes. "We got it. Georgie and I here will be careful with the mushrooms. Won't taste test any."

Philippa's traitorous brain remembers the taste of mushrooms and it turns acrid in the back of her throat. She hates grabbing the railing, but the cold metal helps her focus. 

"Are you okay?" Stamets asks. "You look--"

"I'm surprised you look at people at all, instead of keeping your head buried in your mushrooms," she says with as much ice as she can get into her voice. 

He doesn't even step back, so it's not enough. 

"Anti-radiation meds aren't Terran friendly," Reno quips, tilting her head towards the sacred mushroom storage bay. "Don't worry about us, you have things to do, Stamets."

Dr. Culber stands near the door, smiling, and this goodbye should keep Stamets from lecturing them further and they escape. 

After they pick up engineering kits they're further from the smell of hot metal, and her stomach is a little better. Not calm, but it only roils in her throat, and she can cope. 

Reno enters her access code, humming something asanine but not talking, and that's preferred. The doors open and it smells like rot: sweet and moist, and pungent somehow. How can space mushrooms smell awful? They're sickly, and she has to swallow hard. Her chest burns. 

Reno starts on the right, leaving the left side of the enclosure to her. Walking through the spores isn't bad, the flirty, glowing things have no smell but the air is thick and heavy, tropical almost. There's an earthy, mineral hint under the sweetness and she can barely focus on the tools in front of her. 

She has to kneel to reach the controls, and the closer she is to the dirt, the worse her stomach fights. That sick, sweet scent raises when she moves her knee and she covers her mouth with her arm. 

Focus. Think about the calculations, the ratios of moisture to nitrogen, the differentials--

Her body revolts, refusing her control. Nausea washes over her like a wave of heat and then she vomits, half-digested tea and breakfast spilling into the dirt. The sparkling spores flit around and through her and don't seem to mind the mess. It fades into the dirt and compost. Her eyes sting and she loses focus right before she reaches again, this time her whole chest throws itself into it and she can't breathe. 

There's nothing left after that, and though it burns her mouth and throat, stinging her sinuses. She coughs, setting down her multitool.

"Don't worry about it. Whatever you're throwing up is probably great for the mushrooms." Reno hovers behind her for a moment, then digs in her pocket. "Pretzel?"

"What?" She fights her confusion but she's lost. 

"Tastes better than stomach acid." Reno holds up a pretzel, without sympathy, and that makes it easier somehow.

Philippa takes it, and it sticks to the sweat on her fingers. She takes a bite and Reno offers another one. 

"I have five left. If they help I can get more. I'll tell Stamets that I need another set of tools." 

Chewing has an alien feel to it. Her cheeks are too close to her teeth and everything tastes acrid. Reno drops the pretzels into her toolbox and returns to the other side of the spores, letting Philippa struggle to keep down one insignificant pretzel on her own. Swallowing aches and she coughs, then retches again, spitting out the cursed thing. 

Michael said eating will help, and Philippa hates her, wherever she is. She can't surrender or retreat, she has to conquer this. She picks up another pretzel and the salt burns her tongue. She has to keep it down long enough to finish this tedious, complicated task, because she will not let this win, or go groveling to overly kind Dr. Pollard. 

She gets a minute or two of peace, but it's soon over, and this time her stomach turns violently enough that she drops to her hands in the dirt. Spores swim lazily blue around her head, while her diaphragm tries to turn her empty stomach. It only forces the air out of her lungs like a kick to the gut. 

Tears well up in her eyes and she runs them away, wipes her mouth and forces herself to stand. It takes a hand on protective enclosure to get to her feet. The smell of stomach acid lingers with the mushrooms and compost, and she has to hold her breath to grab her tool kit and leave. 

No one questions her, or even looks at her twice, as she walks through engineering with her tool kit. Everyone is busy and polite, and the dry, filtered air of the ship smells of nothing. She keeps her distance from other people, avoids their eyes and walks as stiffly as if her crown was balanced on her head. 

Sickbay is quiet, and Dr. Pollard sits at the desk, buried in work. Philippa allows herself the weakness of resting her hand on the desk. 

Looking up before Philippa has to speak, Dr. Pollard shuts down the chart she's been reading. "Sit down on the biobed, I'll get the hypospray."

She doesn't force Philippa to admit how many times she vomited, or even ask for an explanation. She scans, hands her a glass of water, and then holds up a hypospray. "This is a standard anti-emetic, which will block your nausea."

Sipping the water, Philippa focuses on her eyes, ignoring the vile taste in her mouth. 

"However--" Dr. Pollard continues.

There's always a however with doctors, no matter how you threaten them. 

"Your reflexes might be slower. Sometimes this class of medication causes headaches and exhaustion." She waits for Philippa to nod before she presses the hypospray against her neck. "Again, come back if the cure is worse. You might need to rest."

"I'll rest when we're out of the nebula."

"When I took these, I got terrible headaches, but I don't want to give you a neuroblocker preemptively."

"Pain is not a hindrance."

"Right, well." Dr. Pollard lowers her hands and checks the biobed readings behind Philippa. "If you get tired, you need to rest. You won't want to, but it's necessary. A headache I can help you with, but again, rest might be the answer."

Looking over her shoulder at the quick blink of the embryo's nascent life sign, she takes a breath, reconciling herself to pain. That's much easier to work through. No one in her universe would rest, it would be a weakness, but here, is it routine? "Does everyone follow your instructions?"

"Most," Dr. Pollard smiles a little. "Depends on the advice. In your case, I've done this, and I can tell you from experience that parts of it were hell both times. Different parts even, so give yourself grace."

That is a concept of this soft universe, but it's less unwelcome today than it would have been. Philippa takes another sip of water. She won't ask why her sense of smell is too acute. She already knows the answer. The cure for that is probably also resting, or waiting for this parasitic invasion of her body to run its course, and there's no time for that. She nods that she's heard her, not that she agrees, but Dr. Pollard isn't the type to push the subject. 

Dr. Pollard responds with a little smile and returns to her desk, leaving Philippa to her thoughts. She gives herself a moment for her nausea to ease, sitting on the biobed, still and quiet. She almost misses Dr. Culber, because he'd tease her and she could tease back, but Pollard's quiet efficiency is appreciated. 

To her surprise, as the medication moves through her blood, her nausea lifts, softening the knot in her stomach. Even breathing is easier, as if her whole torso has become less tense. The twinge in the back of her head can be ignored for now, but it's frustrating, like blood drying on her skin under layers of armor. 

Slipping off the biobed, Philippa's at the door when Dr. Pollard speaks.

"You should eat while you're not nauseated." The doctor doesn't look up, and she could just be talking to the empty Sickbay. "Kill two asteroids with the same torpedo."

She hadn't thought about that, and it's a practical suggestion. It's an off time for the mess hall. It's never entirely empty on  _ Discovery  _ but there's only a handful of crew. Food has no appeal, but it's a necessity. She choses without much thought, then carries her food to the table. 

She never would have sent three valued officers to save a stray Kelpien, ever a lost Terran wouldn't be worth the risk. Philippa finishes the broth of her soup and returns the tray to the replicator. 

Michael risking herself never stops, she's always in danger, always doing the heroic thing. That's why her crew loves her. She'd do this for any of them, and Philippa's only risked her life for Michael. She's faced death every day, but not for others. It's not her way. She can't--

But she could never imagine putting another before herself until she had Michael. Her thoughts drift in the strange loops she finds herself lost in. The way the crew behaves has no logic. It's not efficient, it's not smart, and thinking about it is only adding to her headache. It's self-sacrificial and sentimental instead of strong, but--

Returning to the Cultivation Bay, she picks up where she left off, testing and calibrating parts of spore enclosure. Stamets interrupts her thoughts, surprising her. He's not foolish enough to touch her, but his eyes are hard. "I know you're not accustomed to listening to anyone who's not you, your Highness, but if you're going to help, you need to help, you can't just go whenever you want." 

Philippa smiles at him, tilting her head as she stands. "Do you want to beat me?" 

"What?"

"Throw me in the agonizer? Write me a scathing reprimand?" She rolls her eyes and crosses her arms over her chest. "Punish me and move on." 

"You--" he reaches for her arm and he's very lucky her head hurts. 

"I have killed for that." She pulls her arm away, hard. 

He studies her, staring too long without speaking. Something changes in his eyes and the urge to hit him roils in her chest. 

"Just get back to work." She hates the softer tone more than the bite, but he leaves her alone. 

She touches her fist to her chest in a mocking salute, then sighs. 

Reno walks over. She must have seen the whole thing. "Did you bring back any pretzels?"

Philippa doesn't reply.

"Too bad." Reno shrugs, looking her over. "You look better, got rid of that green shade that doesn't match your leather."

No one would have ever dared imply anything by her appearance, and someone as impertinent as Reno would have been killed as a child. 

Reno continues to talk in the silence. "Did you go to Sickbay?"

They're not having a conversation, not really, but Philippa tilts her chin down, just a little. 

Reno lingers while Philippa opens her toolbox, then reaches in for a pretzel. "You could just tell him something, anything, he doesn't listen, go do what you need to do, come back." She takes a bite of the pretzel. 

"I thought you were an engineer, not a therapist." Everyone on this ship seems to think they're some kind of therapist. 

"I have many talents." Reno folds her arms. 

"Your advice is unnecessary and not desired."

"But fun," Reno says. "They'll write little notes about how prickly you are in the log, but they'll ignore you." She glances at the pretzels and then at Philippa. "I'll leave you these two in case you get hungry." 

"I won't."

"You won't do a lot of things. Hopefully that includes throwing up on Stamets' precious crops any more. I didn't tell him, but I thought about it because I like the faces he makes."

Philiippa rolls her eyes and returns to the task so Reno is the one avoiding work. "Are you done?"

"Done with work or done with providing you with valuable life advice?"

"The former, of course, please continue with the latter, it's so helpful."

"See, that was a better lie," Reno says, chasing spores away from her face with a hand. "You used to be a spy, why don't you lie better?" 

"I lie incredibly well."

Reno crouches down beside her, annoyingly being helpful with the work. "You know, I believe that, as long as it's not about you, apparently that's a weakness of yours."

"There was no reason to lie."

"I suppose if you rule the galaxy with an iron fist you don't have to bend the truth." Reno moves an isolinear chip, then hands it across. "You miss it?"

"Every day."

"No, you don't."

Philippa chuckles. "There was so much paperwork."

"See, that would be why I always try to avoid any kind of responsibility. It's work, and then it's no longer fun, even though you can tell people what to do." Reno finishes her alignment of the moisture controls. "There, you tune the nutrient sensors and we're done. You can go do things you need to do, whatever they are." 

Instead of lingering for a thank you that is not coming, Reno wanders back to the other side of the bay, checks a few things then leaves Philippa alone to finish the work. When she's confident that the precious mushrooms will live their perfect existence for another day, she returns the tool kit and heads to the bridge. 

It's already been most of a day and Michael isn't back yet, nor is Culber, considering how annoyed Stamets looks. Their desire for the safe return of the away team might be one of the first things they've agreed on. 

She meets his eyes before leaving and he nods, which is better than gratitude. Philippa heads to the bridge. 

The ensign at the science station steps back when arrives and she nods to him, then smiles a little at Tilly in the captain's chair. Everything about her is wrong, from the tension in the way she sits to her hair, but this is familiar. She has it in her to do this, she just needs to find it. Her Killy found her strength through violence, but this one will have to do it another way. 

Acting Captain Tilly doesn't question her need to be on the bridge. She's perfectly competent at this station, or any of the bridge stations, she's used all of them before, and this is usually Michael's so it almost makes sense that it's hers. The bright lights of her console and the viewscreen make her eyes ache, but it's only pain. Philippa barely has time to be annoyed about it before Osyraa's huge, ungainly starship arrives and she starts arguing with Tilly.

Tilly has claws after all, and she spars better than Philippa would have thought. She almost agrees with Osyraa, Tilly is a fraud of a captain, but there's more spine in Tilly than she thought. The desire to smack that smirk off Osyraa's face grows slightly faster than her headache. 


	5. fight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Philippa, Tilly and the bridge crew escape from the ready room. The bridge crew tries to retake the ship. Philippa looks for Michael and Osyraa tries to get information.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> canon-consistent torture and violence. 
> 
> many many thanks to Maria for her notes and Sha for cheerleading, you're both wonderful

_ Philippa  _

They can't use the spore drive to jump. Book's gone in his ugly, useful little ship, and he'll get Michael and the away team, Tilly gives the order, but nothing happens. 

The Bridge goes silent. It was a good plan, but Stamets doesn't reply and the ship doesn't disappear into the mycelium. 

"We've been boarded," Philippa says, reaching for the phaser under her console. 

Tilly turns, horror on her face. "What?"

"It's what I'd do. She needs the ship intact--"

Some kind of restraining arms reaches out from Osyraa's  _ Viridian _ . She'll hold them in place, kill the crew, try to figure out how to work the spore drive then...destroy Starfleet?

Take over Starfleet? Philippa's not sure what her last move will be. Does she want to take over, build an empire, or are her ambitions less grand? 

Tilly gives an order to arm themselves, but the bridge crew isn't accustomed to fighting. They weren't boarded by Klingons or fought back against Andorian insurgents. They're all slow to grab their phasers, and the  _ Discovery _ crew doesn't carry side arms. Asking to be boarded, really. 

Osyraa beams onto the Bridge, standing in front of the viewscreen with her faceless guards. Is there equipment in their helmets? Is it just tradition? 

Philippa keeps a hand on her phaser, holding it low enough that Osyraa and the guards won't see it, but they're already behind her and the butt of a disruptor presses into her back.

"Try something stupid," the guard growls, almost hopeful. 

She could kill him, but one of the others would shoot her. Philippa would try it, she's seen these guns before and she could take a shot or two, but Michael is out there, they have to get to her. This is not the moment. 

"Restrain that one," Osyraa says, waving her hand as if she fancies herself royalty. It's manufactured, she fought her way up for this; Philippa can sense it. "She's trouble."

"Wait a minute," Tilly starts, sputtering a little like an angry cat, and Philippa's proud of her for arguing instead of just going in. 

One of the guards in the helmets throws something at Philippa and it explodes into red light, wrapping itself around her wrists, holding them immobile in some kind of force cuffs. Admirable technology but she'll find her way out of it. Her phaser clatters to the floor. She wasn't fast enough to break free, get a hand free, or get out of the way. She's as useless as a kitten, surrounded by other soft little ones. Is it the medication? Will it ruin her reflexes? 

Osyraa and Tilly trade words and then Osyraa pulls her from the captain's chair. There's no pain in it, so Osyraa doesn't relish agony, only power. Philippa notes that for later while the idiot regulator-guard-goon in the stupid black helmet shoves her towards the ready room. 

Tilly shoots her a look, and Philippa nods once. She'll get out of these. Osyraa's buying herself illusions of security. If she needed to, Philippa could get out of these, but she'd break a thumb, maybe her wrist. She's fought with one hand before, but she doesn't relish it. 

The regulator shoves her again, and she stumbles into the wall. It stings for a moment, but now Tilly's temper is up. 

Tilly glares, nearly commanding. "Osyraa promised we wouldn't be harmed."

Osyraa should have killed them all, so if she's keeping them alive she wants something more than just the ship. They need to determine what that is. 

"She tripped," the regulator says, gesturing at the perfectly smooth floor. "Clumsy."

"If you hurt my crew--" 

It's an act, it must be, but a believable one. Perhaps-- Philippa smiles a little as she's shoved to the deck. The regulator takes pleasure in shoving them all into the ready room and his companion without a helmet, the officer, yells that they shouldn't talk. 

Hostages are a security problem, and Osyraa's weak for keeping them alive. She has the ship, why keep them? They only people who care about them are Starfleet, is she trying to negotiate? Is she too soft to kill them all? That doesn't fit with Michael's opinion of her, so there's something else, something Philippa's missing. 

"You really should have killed me," a familiar, annoying, voice drawls. "You knew it would be back to bite you in the ass, but this one-" the man with the thesaurus, what was his name? Zarek? "Our captain had to be nice." He swaggers over, but there's a limp now. That parasitic ice wasn't cruel enough since he lives. Maybe even that found him distasteful. 

He looks to Tilly, then reaches out with ice-blacked fingers, dragging them across Philippa's chin. "She's going to pay for your mistake, captain, because she knew you shouldn't leave me alive, and you didn't listen."

"No, leave her alone--" Tilly interrupts, lunging at him but a regulator stops her. 

Zareh grins, pulling back his arm. He enjoys pain. That flash in his eyes is very familiar. "Think of it as command training."

Philippa tries to lift her arms, but they won't move. She can't protect herself. Zareh wasting his breath on his ego gives her time to brace, and his fist hits her jaw, hard enough for sparks to burst bright into her eyes. Pain lances through her mouth, and then back of her neck. Fighting back the darkness, Philippa remains conscious, but the blood in her mouth makes her stomach twist in a way it never has before. He hits her again, and she turns her head, catching it on the cheekbone. His knuckle cracks against her face and she coughs, spitting blood but smiling.

This time she would have fallen to her knees, reeling, but hands grab her. She tenses, but it's Owosekun, and somehow that's all right. 

"This lesson is done," Detmer snaps, putting herself in between. 

He winces, favoring his hand. That'll be broken. Good. He might have kicked her if she'd gone down and she'll need to be careful. 

The thought shocks her like an agonizer. She's never been careful, not for a moment, but it was her first thought. Don't let him hit her stomach. Philippa tenses, disconcerted. How does she do this with a weakness?

Spitting blood on the floor, she smirks at him. Owosekun's hands are still on her, keeping her balance. Zareh hit harder before, then she beat him and killed his men. This time, she'll kill him. 

"You bastard," Tilly hisses. "Leave my crew alone." 

Maybe Tilly will do it. She pulls away from the guard holding her, livid. 

"No talking," Zareh warns all of them. "Sit, be quiet, or I'll decide you don't need all your crew." 

Tilly rushes over and Detmer glares at Zareh as he leaves. Philippa's weaker on her feet than she expected, and it must be-- damn. 

Owosekun guides her down, touching her face. "I don't think anything's broken."

"His knuckle," Philippa says, licking blood from her lips. 

Detmer chuckles a little. "I heard that." 

"He said no talking," the regulator snaps.

Tilly stands, getting in his face. "She's bleeding, shut up." 

"You have a minute."

"How's your vision?" Owosekun asks, carefully. 

"I see enough." Philippa rolls her eyes, but she allows Owosekun to touch her face. 

Owosekun can't get the blood to stop running down her cheek. It's bleeding more than Philippa thought it would. "You're bleeding a lot."

Philippa doesn't comment, and Owosekun studies her. "Is that something from your universe, do you bleed more?"

"No, not like this." She won't elaborate, and Owosekun's dark eyes soften with concern. 

It's nothing, but they're not going to leave her. She wouldn't have stumbled if she was herself, but she's not and she won't be. It's frustrating that they seem to see that. In her universe, they'd start planning her death, but here they look after her. Phiippa's not sure which is worse. 

"Their comms are on their belts," Tilly whispers, leaning in close. "And I think I saw the control for the cuffs." 

Owosekun wipes blood from the corner of Philippa's mouth, gently touching her cheek, "This will bruise, but your eye is fine." Even the faint pressure of her fingers stings, and Philippa winces.

"I'm going to kill him," Tilly whispers, reaching down for Philippa's hand. 

"Now you get it," Philippa whispers back. 

Tilly touches her fingers, then squeezes. Before the guards can hear, Tilly leans closer, almost hugging her. "We will need a distraction." 

Philippa nods, touching her forehead to Tilly's cheek. The guards will get bored later, it's better if they let them become less attentive. "Wait," she whispers. 

Book needs time to find Michael and the away team, then bring them back, so they should give it an hour or so. She winks at Tilly, then shuts her eyes, slumping forward into Owosekun. It wasn't enough of a hit for her to pass out, but no one needs to know their boss can't hit worth a damn. 

Owosekun catches her again, lying her down, worrying and glaring at the guards, which it's fine because it's fake. She's not unconscious, but if it gets the cuffs off, it's worth it. 

"I think she has a concussion," Owosekun says loud enough for the guards. "He hit her so hard." 

Ego always works on these types. Owosekun takes her head in her lap, holding her while Detmer and Tilly fuss over her head. From the hit, or the parasite growing within her, Philippa's head throbs and not moving lets her save her energy for when they fight back. 

Tilly keeps arguing, and she's smart about it. She plays to their boss's ego. Of course Zareh hit her too hard, he's so macho. The guards have to fall for that. If they question it, they're questioning how strong he is. He can't really be threatened by a tiny woman?f

Philippa allows herself a tiny smile that only Owosekun can see. Tilly's come so far, and she's proud. Owosekun touches the but on her cheek, trying to stop the bleeding. Must be worse than she thought. What did Culber say about her having more blood? She might actually have to read the books she's been avoiding to know why her body isn't operating as it should. 

"You're still bleeding," Owosekun whispers. "This is deep." 

It's nothing. The Owosekun she knows would hardly worry about such a thing, and yet- Philippa stops her thoughts. Her Owosekun would have worried. Anyone touching her Emperor would have meant she failed. She trusted her, rightly, with her life, because she knows she was loyal. 

Here they're all loyal, disgustingly so. Even Detmer, who Philippa knew as a traitor in her universe, protected her. 

Are they protecting the ghost of their captain? 

Perhaps, but the twisting in her stomach isn't just the anti-nausea medication starting to wear off. They know she's not that Philippa. Not the good captain, but--

The cuffs on her hands shut off after Tilly argues long enough to convince the guards that a tiny, injured woman can't possibly be a threat. Her wrists ache a little, then tingle as the feeling comes back. Turning to her side, she allows her head to remain in Owosekun's lap, just for appearances really, and it's mildly more comfortable than the floor.

* * *

Philippa's not sure when she fell asleep, but the commotion wakes her. She doesn't move and keeps her eyes shut, trusting Owosekun to warn her if she needs to be awake. Her headache's marginally better, and the fuzzy feeling is gone from her limbs. So that wore off, which could be useful, but it only takes a breath for her to remember why she was taking that medication. How can she be sick to her stomach again? Wasn't it enough before? Is this going to last for days? Weeks?

That voice is Book's, she recognizes his accent. If he's here, where's Michael? They throw him into the ready room, and the Andorian, by the sound of his feet. Tilly whispers something, and she must be asking about Michael. Where is she? If Book's here...she's out there. She needs them to help take back the ship. 

The guards start arguing over the bridge officers and their morse code, funny how no other beings bothered to learn it, it's fairly helpful. If only they had something more intelligent to say. Tilly hisses that they need to be quiet and Philippa opens her eyes, looking up into Owosekun's concerned face. She raises an eyebrow, checking the moment she can't see. Owosekun nods just a little, so Philippa rolls to her side, groaning. 

Book, Tilly and her crew move quickly when she pretends she's about to throw up. While the guards watch her, they're quickly attacked from behind. Philippa would be impressed if she wasn't so annoyed at her stomach. 

Funny how pretending to be sick quickly turns into vomiting again. She thought she'd thrown up enough, but there seems to be no end of this. There's fresh blood in her mouth, so she must have opened the wounds Zareh left. It's definitely enough, because by the time her stomach's empty, the guards are down. 

Owosekun touches the back of her head, kneeling beside her. "Are you all right?"

"Fine," Philippa says without meaning it, or with any real strength behind it. "Where's Michael?" 

Tilly and Owosekun help get her to her feet, and there's a look, a moment that passes between them. What does Owosekun know? "She's out there, we have to help her," Tilly says. 

"She'd go to engineering, we need Stamets to jump back to the nebula," Detmer says, and it's a good idea.

Philippa stands, but has to bend, swallowing hard before she throws up again. Owosekun touches her shoulder, and Tilly's small hand joins hers. She needs to get to Michael, so this is unacceptable. Her body has to function. 

Book and Ryn look at each other. "We'll stay, draw their fire when they come. You retake the ship." 

Tilly and Book share words, but Philippa doesn't listen. Her mouth tastes of blood and stomach acid and this room's going to smell of ozone, vomit and death. Better get out of here. 

"Are you going to be alright?"

Phiippa shakes off both of their hands. She stands straight. Michael needs them. Her body, and the parasite sapping her strength, will have to cooperate, just long enough. "You wanted a distraction, you got one." 

Tilly and Owosekun share a look so loud it could be speech, but she ignores it. Let them. What matters is finding Michael and retaking the ship. 

"She'll go to engineering, they must have done something to Stamets, controlled him--"

"Neural locks," Book says. "I've seen them. Nasty thing. He'd do what they wanted."

Tilly nods, tilting her head towards the rear exit. "We need to get to the armory, get more weapons."

Bryce follows her. "The regulators will be all over the ship."

Philippa sighs and glares down at the bodies. "If they're as poorly trained as these two, it'll be easier to retake it than we thought." 

"They're not all this stupid," Book warns, shaking his head. "Stay alive, all of you."

"You too," Tilly says, and they're gone. Climbing through forgotten, tight parts of the ship, she focuses on the pain in her face, because she's used to managing pain. Ignoring nausea is more complicated. She has to stop twice and catch her breath, fighting it down, and she's at the back of the group anyway. No one dares ask, but Tilly and Owosekun need to learn how to be more subtle. 

They strip the armory of weapons, grabbing hand phasers and phaser rifles. How many regulators would Osyraa bring to take a ship this size? How many will be sent after them and how many are looking for Michael? 

Philippa leans against the wall, closing her eyes. 

"We're going to the bridge," Tilly says with real metal in her voice. "No matter what." 

Opening her eyes, Philippa watches her lead her team. Tilly reminds them they're facing death and she does it with clear eyes. 

Philippa's so proud that she smiles. "I need to find Michael."

"Georgiou--"

Philippa shoves off the wall, standing straight, projecting strength. "She's alone. I'll find her."

"Michael knows she's alone, she can--" Tilly pauses, then sighs, "The ship is crawling with regulators, can you even get to her?"

"I'm a spy, remember?" she says, keeping her tone light. "You go take the bridge, I can find her." 

"We'll see you and Michael up on the bridge then. Help her." Tilly touches her arm and Philippa's almost sure that she'll hug her again, but she just smiles wearily. She doesn't have time to argue with Philippa and she sends most of her team ahead, but Owosekun lags behind with Tilly. 

Owosekun studies her, her tone gentle. "Are you alright by yourself? Not to be--"

"I'm fine." Philippa says, challenging her with a smile. Will she respond? Does she know? 

"You might have a concussion, your reflexes will be slower," Owosekun says without threat, or sympathy. "So don't be macho, just shoot them." 

Philippa nods, swallowing a snappy comeback. "Zareh is cruel and stupid. Osyraa wants to be queen, use her ego."

Tilly smiles a little. "You would know?" 

Now she can smile back. "It's only ego when it's not earned." 

* * *

Ryn's sensor trick means that as long as no one sees her with their eyes, she's not really here, and it's much easier to move through the ship without the bridge crew's breathing and the sounds of their feet to give her away. Once Tilly's little band starts fighting, the corridors are nearly empty, and it's easy to slip through. She ducks into her quarters for some other weapons; knives are so silent and quick. Though these regulators wear helmets, their necks are unprotected and she makes short work of the few she comes up behind. 

Michael and Stamets are already gone from engineering when she finds the unconscious scientist and the dead guards. Where would she take him? What is she thinking? She'll want to get him off the ship. Shuttles would be stopped, transporters aren't working--

The explosion down a deck must be Michael, and Philippa ducks through the Jefferies tubes, then drops beside her. 

Turning to attack, Michael gasps happily instead, then grabs her, hugging Philippa tight before she can protest that now is not the time and this is not who they are- except- they're always changing. Michael smells like blood and burnt leather, and she's limping. 

"What happened?"

"I wasn't fast enough, the regulator had a knife." Michael touches her cheek, wincing. "And you?"

"Oh, I did that," Zareh says, surprising them from behind. She should have heard him, smelt him, but she was so relieved to have Michael. "Your little acting captain needed a lesson in consequences, and I owed her at least that." 

Could they take him? He's slow, but there are five regulators behind him, weapons raised. Michael's already injured and she's not quick enough. Wait for a better moment, let him take them to Osyraa. 

"You should have killed me," Zareh reminds her, shoving her with his weapon yet again. "It's too bad that Kelpien will die of radiation poisoning long before you can tell him you were right about killing me." 

Starfleet needs Discovery. Michael knows that, it's why Stamets has been blown off the ship and they're allowing themselves to be led up to Osyraa. She made the hard choice. Every moment they don't go back to the nebula is playing with Saru, Culber and Adira's lives, and instead of rushing back to them, Michael has chosen to save the ship. 

That's the hard choice, the Terran choice, yet Michael made it. She should be captain. She has to see that now. Saru couldn't have done it. Tilly never would have forgiven herself. 

Zareh shoves them into a turbolift, rougher than he needs to be. He's still enjoying this. The regulators pack in around them, surrounding them with weapons, which is frustrating. It's more annoying that she can't trust herself to take them out. Michael's injured too, this is not the moment. 

Zareh drags them both onto the bridge, holding Philippa's arm tight, then shoving her against the science console. She makes it look like it hurts, but she's fine. Bullies like to feel important, and if he's happy, he pay less attention. 

"So here's the courier and the one who helped you trick my idiot nephew," Osyraa says, studying them both. "What happened to her face?"

"She had an argument." 

Osyraa glares at Zareh. "With your fist?"

"We've had dealings, I told you she was recalcitrant."

"I had to kill him you know," Osyraa says, glaring at Michael. "I was hoping he'd be smarter than his father, but after what the two of you did, I had to feed him to a trance worm." 

"I feel bad for the worm," Philippa mutters, watching Osyraa's eyes. She didn't really care about the nephew, that's obvious, even if Philippa hadn't spent weeks with Orion sex workers who lied much better than Osyraa does. 

Michael reminds Osyraa that the crew is fighting back, baiting her, taunting her. It's smart: find her weaknesses, feel for what annoys her, watch for her to make a mistake. Zareh's not watching Osyraa argue with Michael, which is interesting. There's no trust lost between them. He's nothing, just someone who could keep the regulators in line while Osyraa left the ship. 

Osyraa doesn't have an inner circle she trusts. She had to contract out to this idiot with a thesaurus. Her position is more fragile than she's willing to admit. Desperate enough to make this grab for  _ Discovery _ , to talk to the Federation. Does she see them as equals, or is she out of options? How desperate does Osyraa have to be to concede anything? 

Osyraa makes threats and Philippa rolls her eyes. Of course this ends in torture. It seems easy to cause enough pain to get the truth out of someone, but it's terribly unreliable. Pain is a tool for proving power, and strength. It's a punishment, not useful for information gathering. 

"So who do we ask about the dilithium? Which one of you wants to volunteer?" Zareh runs his hand across her shoulders, then grabs her hair, tugging the back of her head down so she has to look up at him. He thinks he's so tough. "She said she enjoys it."

Osyraa waves dismissively. "I don't care which one of them you torture, we just need the dilithium. You could save them both, just tell me how to fly through the nebula."

"Never," Michael says, staring her down. 

Osyraa grins. "I thought you'd say that, well then, let us go get our information." 

Michael stares at Philippa, flicking her eyes to Book for a moment before she meets her gaze. They're going to torture one of them≥ Book is probably as soft as his cat. Philippa looks at Michael, not nodding, not giving anything away. Michael would be an idiot to let Book be tortured instead of her. 

Michael's not an idiot. 

"She doesn't know anything, she's not even on the crew," Michael says in the turbolift. 

"Neither is the courier, but you're not defending him." Osyraa orders the lift to send them to sickbay, which Philippa will admit issmart. If you're trying to get information, it ruins it if they pass out or die when you're trying to question them. 

Michael looks at Book too long, not meeting his eyes, trying to look away. Try to not give it away, make it look furtive, good work. 

"Well, do you want to choose or should I?" Osyraa looks from Philippa to Book, then fixes her gaze on Michael. "One of them will tell me, and if the first one doesn't, it's nice to have back up. I suppose we could always torture you, but Starfleet has always been irritating when I torture them directly. Much better for you to watch pain. "

"I choose her," Zareh interrupts, shoving Philippa hard towards the biobed. "I owe her." 

Philippa stumbles again, catching herself. Michael even takes a step towards her, protectively, and that's good. Show a little weakness to make her bite. 

Zareh restrains her to the biobed, and she stands against it. The man she doesn't know, the worried one with soft eyes over his beard, looks at her vital signs. Scientist, or doctor, someone who can read the indicators on the biobed.

"Her vitals are already off-" he argues, this soft man. "Maybe we want to--"

"Off? Off how?" Osyraa asks. "Will she die too fast?"

"No, I don't think so, but--" the soft man back down when Osyraa threatens him and Philippa watches him crumple. He won't mention what he saw on her vitals. He's too afraid. 

The neural lock rests on her forehead like a crown. While Zareh and Osyraa argue about her vitals and whatever else, Philippa looks at Michael. Is it some kind of portable agonizer? Have they improved the technology in the last nine hundred years or is this universe still soft? 

I'll be fine, Philippa insists without speaking. This is the right choice. Spare Book, he's not Terran, he doesn't understand pain. This neural lock can't possibly be better at producing pain than the agonizers her empire spent decades perfecting. She'll have to make it look convincing, and that's almost more exhausting. Screaming is so tiring. 

Michael looks at her, eyes wide, apologetic, concerned-- She seems to vibrate with worry, but Philippa knows better. Michael has a plan, she just needs to wait and endure. 

"What is she to you, I wonder?" Osyraa asks, tilting her head at Michael while she touches Philippa's hair. "Sister? Mentor? Comrade in arms?"

"You'll have to keep wondering," Michael says. There's a threat in her tone Osyraa doesn't recognize, but Philippa does. How fun. 

Osyraa waves impatiently and the neural lock flips on, whiting out Philippa's vision as it introduces searing pain to her nerves. It licks up from her extremities, sliding through sensations, not burning, not freezing, but consuming, as if her cells are being destroyed in a cascade, one by one. 

It's a little like being torn between time and space, and as she allows herself to cry out, she embraces the irony. Michael spared her a horrible death, kept her here, and she found pain anyway. How fitting. 


	6. breaking the chain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Michael and her crew take the ship back from Osyraa and Zareh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> many many thanks to Maria and Sha for helping me with this.
> 
> canon-consistent torture and violence.

_ Michael _

Philippa does not know how to get through the Verubin nebula to the dilithium planet, and perhaps that's why she agreed to be tortured so easily. Maybe it's pride. This neural lock can't be much more sophisticated than the agonizers from Philippa's universe, they played games with agonizers where she's from. Michael tries to tell herself that Philippa's fine. That she'll be fine that this is the best choice, but she'll never be able to tune out suffering, especially when it's people she cares about. 

Philippa's eyes are shut, sweat runs down her face, and she screams. She fights it, struggles for breath, and Michael forces herself to watch. It would be easier to do this herself, to suffer, she's comfortable with her own pain, but Philippa wouldn't let her. There's pride in being nearly indestructible, even if she's not right now. That worry sinks into Michael's stomach and burns there, hot and demanding. Philippa and the baby will both be alright. Michael will be able to use this distraction, she just needs to get closer. 

Osyraa thinks they're weak, that caring will be their undoing. Maybe if Osyraa's regulators cared what they were fighting for they'd fight a little harder. If Zareh cared about anything but pain, he'd be better at holding the ship. The way he watches Philippa scream with his mouth slightly open: there's pleasure in his eyes. He's distracted. He doesn't move quickly either, so Michael doesn't need to worry about him when she's ready. 

The Emerald Chain is not getting the dilithium or her ship. That's the line, and she has to hold it, no matter what it costs. Her crew understands, they have to. Book knows better than most why the Emerald Chain has to be kept from power. Michael looks at him, watching the strain drain the color from his face. He feels what Philippa does. Maybe he can tune it out, maybe he can't, and she's putting them both through this.

No,  _ Osyraa _ is. This is her doing. Osyraa is killing her crew, Osyraa is trying to torture her way to victory. Someone like that can't be a power in the galaxy. 

Michael can't help thinking of T'Kuvma and how she killed him. She shot him dead after she'd decided that they needed him alive. She made him a martyr for killing Georgiou and now she'll strangle Osyraa with her bare hands if she has to. The Federation is better than this, but she's not. She's somewhere in between that brilliant blue flag and the messy, grey courier's world. She understands that now in a way she couldn't when she killed T'Kuvma. Killing him brought war, but killing Osyraa will bring peace. She knows that now in a way she couldn't have years ago. 

Part of Michael wonders if she could have saved Captain Georgiou if she'd been better, if she knew what she knows now back then, but she can't think like that. This moment needs all of her mind so she can save this Philippa, Book and her crew. 

"Stop," the scientist calls, looking frantically from Philippa's vital signs to Osyraa. "We need to stop, her vitals are spiking."

"Stop?" Osyraa points a long green finger at Michael, almost touching her face as she leers. "She's supposed to say that, or the courier, really, either of you can tell me how to get the dilithium, your crew can live, and I'll stop hurting her."

"I still have business with her," Zareh interrupts from behind Osyraa, pointing his weapon at Philippa. "Maybe I could take her back to the parasitic ice, or cause some nerve damage in her hands. I'm not picky, but I owe her some pain." 

"You're not here to get revenge," Osyraa reminds him, rolling her eyes. "You're here to assist me, and you haven't done that well enough for a reward."

Osyraa's scientist, Auriello, tries to get her attention back, and that's real worry on his face. He's not like Osyraa and Zareh, he seems to care. "She's not responding within human baselines."

"So?" Osyraa looks from Michael to Book, then studies Philippa as she writhes. "Maybe she's not human, so many species look like humans, I can't tell them apart."

Auriello moves closer to the bioscans, looking for something. He's smart enough that he might discover the baby and Michael doesn't know what that will do to the situation. 

Michael tugs against the guards. She's not sure if she's putting on a show or if she's revealing how desperate she is. If this goes wrong, everyone dies, the Federation loses and the whole damn galaxy is fucked. She doesn't believe in no win scenarios, but this might be the time she's wrong if she can't get the three of them out of this room.

Auriello starts defending himself to Osyraa before she even speaks. "She's not responding well."

"Torture is hardly meant to be good for health."

"You said you would keep the Starfleet people alive."

"I'd prefer not to kill any of them," Osyraa advances on him, grabbing his neck. She leers at him and there's real fear on his face, in the way he tenses. So much for the benevolent leader of the Chain. "I'd prefer not to kill you. Keep that in your mind and remember that I didn't tell you to stop."

He looks past Osyraa at Michael, just for a moment, as if checking the truth of what he's saying by looking at her. "She's pregnant." 

Osyraa pauses, but her hand's still on his neck. "And what's what to me?"

Even threatened, Auriello shuts off the neural lock, ending Philippa's pain. Her head falls to the side, limp, and maybe she's faking it, maybe she's unconscious. Michael has to get them out of here. She has to end this, make Philippa's torture worthwhile, get them out of here. She shoves her way forward a step, dragging the guards with her. 

"Let me make sure she's all right," Michael begs. 

Maybe she sounds desperate enough that she could be breaking, maybe Osyraa's distracted enough, threatening her own scientist as she chokes him unconscious, but she nods to the guards and Michael limps forward to Philippa on the biobed. 

"Stay close to her," Osyraa orders the guards. They follow right behind but Michael can work with that. Book's still close to Zareh and Osyraa. She needs him over here, within the quarantine field. 

"I'll tell you how to get through the nebula, if you leave her alone," Michael says, reaching out to rest her hand on the black leather over Philippa's stomach.  _ Hang on, baby. Be strong for us.  _

"No, you can't--" Book lunges towards her, as if he knew what she needed. Maybe he did, or they're just lucky. The guards turn to him, distracted, and as soon as he's close enough, Michael slams her hand down, activating the quarantine field. It surrounds them in the blue bubble of a force field, separating them from Osyraa and Zareh. 

Michael hits one of the guards in the stomach, Book attacks the other, and her heart thuds in her ears as she disarms the guard. She shoots one with the weapon she just took from him, then the other. Reaching down, she grabs a badge from the chest of the closest one. 

Osyraa can't get the field down and her rage echoes in her impotent yelling at Zareh and her remaining guards. 

Michael grabs a hypospray, fills it with the closest stimulant and presses it against Philippa's neck. Then she grabs her, dragging her off the biobed, taking most of her weight. Book scoops Philippa up into his arms, making it easy. She'd hate it if she was more awake, but she's slowly coming around and doesn't really know yet where she is. 

"This way," Michael says, leading him out the back route of sickbay. They flee through the hallway and pause in an alcove, joking about Sigma Ten (that was a nightmare planet) while Philippa's semi-conscious in Book's arms and Michael uses the shipwide comms to tell Tilly what she needs her to do. If Tilly and her team can knock them out of warp, they can retake the ship. Tilly will understand her cryptic message. 

The badge she stole is enough to activate the turbolift and once they're all inside, they have a moment to breathe. It's just a moment, Michael's leg burns, all three of them are sweating, but they have a minute. She can make sure Philippa's all right. 

Book sets Philippa down on the floor of the turbolift, leaning her against the wall. "Is she okay?"

"Philippa?" Michael touches her cheek, then shakes her shoulder a little. "I need you."

"What's the plan?" Book asks, holding one of the weapons. 

"You need to get to the crew, find Ryn, maybe together you can help them. I have to get to the data core."

Philippa groans, curling up for a moment, lifting her knees against her chest. Michael hugs her again, holding her awkwardly close in the bottom of the turbolift. 

'I'm sorry," Michael whispers. 

Philippa's hand clumsily grabs her shoulder. "I've sat through Starfleet briefings that were worse than that," The cold sweat on her skin suggests otherwise, and she coughs, then clears her throat, but she seems to be functional. 

Michael's hand rests on her stomach, almost without either of them noticing, and Michael meets her eyes. "Baby's okay." She saw that before they dragged her off the biobed. 

"I wasn't--" but she was, she had to be. Philippa blinks too fast and her eyes are wet when they help her up. "The parasite makes everything so difficult."

"Someday you can tell her," Michael says, half holding her up with an arm around her back. "We need to get to the data core."

The turbolift starts to slow, maybe Zareh and Osyraa found them. Book stares at her and then kisses her goodbye, warm and gentle, and now she could do anything. Being in love is wild like that. Book jumps from the open turbolift door to another lift, fighting the guards inside and she watches him for a moment before he disappears. 

"Don't say anything," Michael warns without meeting Philippa's eyes. 

She can barely stand without holding onto the wall of the lift, but her smile's bright and amused. "So now it's love."

"We're not talking about that now." 

"Fine, later," Philippa teases. She looks up, wincing a little in the bright lights of the turbolift. She must have forgotten to take the meds that help her eyes. She's been busy or maybe she threw them up. 

Michael's stomach knots. She owes her some time off, badly. Michael shakes her head, holding stock of the weapon towards Philippa. "You should take it." 

Philippa reaches into her boots, pulling knives out of spaces where nothing should have fit in the tight black leather against her calves. "I'm fine."

Fine is relative, but they don't have time to debate it. The turbolift slows, and guards will be waiting for them. Philippa takes a step back, tilting her head to the side so they can flank the door. Michael glances up at the light, then Philippa nods. 

The door opens, letting two of the regulators and Zareh into the lift, Michael fires her weapon up at the light, knocking them all into darkness. The first guard comes after her, but something fast and quiet hits his neck, between helmet and armor. He goes down, spraying blood and choking. She has to hit the second one, then he falls down, gulping. That leaves Zareh, who fires into the darkness, and lunges at Michael.

He's much slower than Philippa, and the darkness is her element. He hits Michael once, and pain flares in her chest, then he gasps, exhaling, before his breath stops. He goes limp against her and Michael drops him, her heart pounding in her ears. 

"I owed you that," Philippa mutters. "The galaxy's a better place now." Something whispers and she must be wiping her knives clean on his shirt. 

Michael slams her hand onto the controls and the lift doors shut, sealing them in darkness. 

Philippa can probably see her, but Michael can only hear her breathing. "That was smart."

"Thanks." Traveling gives them a can hear her toying with it in the darkness. "I wanted one of these, Saru wouldn't let me keep it."

"When we beat Osyraa, I'll let you keep her ship."

Philippa sighs, disgusted. "It's ugly."

Michael chuckles, and it's weary and exhausted but it helps. The tension in her stomach fades for a moment as the lift arrives at the data core. She's glad to have the company. 

Philippa follows her, covering her as Michael heads straight for the core. "Can I kill her?"

"Yeah."

That earns a dark little smile. "Good."

Osyraa arrives a moment later, surrounded by guards, the firefight is quick, bolts everywhere and the guards fall one by one. Philippa hisses in pain at one point and Michael wants to look to make sure she's alright, but she can't, Osyraa's right in front of her.

They struggle, Osyraa shoving her back, kneeing her in the leg wound. Pain rushes hot through her, and Osyraa shoves her back into the programmable matter data core. Michael takes a breath, shoving back. Osyraa's distracted for a moment when Philippa hits her from behind, and Michael knocks her down, wrapping her good leg around Osyraa's neck. She's practiced that move hundreds of times with Philippa, always stopping. Michael's cracked a few holographic necks, but this is the first one where the bone is real. Osyraa's neck snaps beneath her, and she's gone. 

Michael sits there for a moment, panting as her heart pounds in her ears. Philippa drags Michael up, wincing in pain, and they stare at each other. 

"You okay?"

"Fix the ship," Philippa says. Together they replace the isolinear chips, and Michael restarts the ship. 

"Reset all primary and secondary systems, authorization Burnham Gamma six-zero-two Episilon Echo." The computer voice starts out male and foreign, then the lights dim, and the computer shifts. It could all go wrong here, and she reaches for Philippa, holding her hand. 

"System check," the computer repeats, changing to the familiar voice she knows. "Reboot complete, Commander Burnham."

Michael pats Philippa's shoulder, then hangs onto her, trembling as her adrenaline races through her bloodstream. She orders the Regulators beamed away, strengthens the shields and announces the ship is theirs again. Beside her, Philippa pants for breath, clinging to Michael with her good arm and favoring her left. 

"We've got to get to the bridge." 

Philippa nods, leaning against her and the console for a moment before she takes a breath, straightens up. "Still have to beat that monstrosity out there.."

Michael stumbles for words. "I know we just got you back from death and--"

"And I've spent the last two days throwing up," Philippa finishes for her, leaning against her as if her legs aren't up to the task of holding her up alone. They walk to the lift together, and Philippa smiles. "You did it."

"Almost, we're don't have Saru and the away team." Michael sighs, ordering the lift to take them to the bridge. Still, she put Philippa in danger, got her tortured. "I'm sorry."

"For what?" Philippa drops her weapon to the floor, holding onto the wall. "I intend to keep throwing up for as many days as this wretched process takes."

"It's supposed to calm down in a few weeks."

Philippa rolls her eyes at the ceiling. "I'm not that lucky."

Michael takes a weary step towards her, then hugs her, clinging to her until she feels human again. "Maybe you are."

"Because I'm--?" Philippa asks, half whispering into Michael's hair as she lets the last word remain unsaid. She stays in the hug, maybe it's good for her too. "I'm all right. I guess-" Philippa pauses, releasing Michael and stepping back. She looks into her eyes, then looks away past Michael's head. "We both are." 

The lift stops. Michael beams because that's the closest Philippa's come to speaking about the baby. 

"I knew you liked it." 

"I'd like you to get us out of here." Philippa holds on to Michael, steadying her as they stumble together out onto the bridge. 

Tilly hugs them both, smiling, laughing almost hysterically. Things have to be said, she needs to defer to Tilly, she's in command. Michael tells the crew that they're using the old operating system and they retake their stations. 

"Captain, we have an idea," Michael says, looking at Tilly as she takes Philippa's weight. 

"Then implement it." 

"Tilly?" Michael's heart skips a beat. She'd never take this from Tilly. 

"We need you to lead us." Tilly says, brave, strong and selfless. "You. But if it helps, that's an order."

Philippa's holding onto Tilly, then the science console, but her smile is as bright as a supernova, and Michael's never going to mention the way her eyes are wet. She wanted her to be captain, maybe she always has, and now--

"Okay, so here's what we're going to do--" It's a long shot, using their warp core to blow their way out. They won't have their power source, if it doesn't work, it's all over. 

They have a shot. Everyone reports to her, announcing their readiness. She gives the order, and Book beams into the spore cube. Michael takes the captain's chair, watching the  _ Veridian _ try to get through their shields on the viewscreen. 

They jump. Book jumps them, and that space between universes takes them like an old friend. 

The Verubin nebula swirls around them and they beam their crew and Su'Kal aboard. Michael sends them straight to sickbay and from the looks of Philippa she needs to send her there too. She's holding on to Tilly and the console, somehow still on her feet, but she's pale, like ancient Vulcan parchment. 

"Take us back to Starfleet Headquarters," Michael orders her crew, and this jump comes so much easier. Book must have figured it out. She leans back in the captain's chair, touching the rough little piece of metal on the arm, thinking of her Captain Georgiou. Once she thought she deserved to sit here, that she'd earned it. Now she knows that it's not that simple, that it's a responsibility, heavy on her shoulders, but she's ready. 


	7. sunrise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On shore leave aboard the rainforest ship, _Maathai_ , Philippa and Tilly talk about surprises, Captain Pike and failures.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so it's total fluff and feelings and the comfort side of the hurt last chapter. I find Tilly and Philippa a delightful combination. 
> 
> Many many thanks to Maria and Sha for all their support.

_Philippa_

The impending sunrise isn't real, nor is the beach, but the scent of the ocean fits with her memories of Malaysia, centuries ago. There aren't many waves in this space-going rainforest. The _USS Maathai_ consists of a tiny central control area and a sprawling rainforest surrounded by an ocean, all contained within a transparent hull. The technology is impressive, and it must require huge amounts of power, though it's not a battleship. 

The transparent shell of the ship allows them to see the stars, and the other ships within the protective shield of Starfleet headquarters. It's a beautiful design, entirely impractical, but she is used to that in this universe. There was art where she came from, but it wasn't encouraged in the same way. She would never have included such a ship in her fleet, but waiting the stars while she waits for the holographic sun to rise. 

Wrapping her hands around her tea, Philippa watches a starship swoop past overhead and leans back in her chair on the beach. It's still cool and she pulls her blanket closer. The holographic sun will increase the temperature but it's only starting to rise, bringing pink and orange to the sky, that hides the stars.

Shore leave would usually be a planet, or a starbase, somewhere nearby while a ship was being repaired. _Discovery_ needs a full data core overhaul, a nacelle refit, and a detailed security sweep before she can return to service. Michael said they were going to take apart as much of the spore drive as possible while they have a new scientist and the excuse to do so, so the _Discovery_ crew is also having a reset. They've all been dispersed on this ship, sent to little houses within the forest, and Philippa's with Michael's bridge crew. 

She's not sure what part of being on an island of jungle, floating through space will help them, but mental health was not something they concerned themselves with in her universe. It is a soft thing, worrying about their feelings, giving them so much time without work, but the sunrise is beautiful as it creeps into the sky and the beach smells like it did in her childhood. She hasn't thought of Malaysia much in years. Her life was the palace, the Imperial fleet, and her conquests. Sitting on the beach with nowhere to be, no honor guard, no slaves, and no one waiting for her is a surreal experience.

Empty of purpose, as soulless as a holographic sun.

She spent so little time alone as the Emperor. Philippa had started to be comfortable with having her own quarters without servants, and being genuinely alone, when she worked with Section 31, but that too has passed and now _Discovery_ is her home. 

And she's not alone, is she? She won't be for months. Being back on the _Charon_ made more sense then this. Traveling nine hundred years in the future was simple, compared to-- 

"Morning," Tilly says, pulling Philippa from her thoughts. "I know you don't want to be bothered, so I'll go, I just thought you might want breakfast, and when I said I was going to ask you about breakfast Dr. Culber said I should bring you oatmeal and Owo suggested banana and I honestly don't know if you eat this but they both seemed really concerned about you eating, which is weird."

Philippa holds out her hand and accepts the bowl without comment or changing her expressionresting it on her lap. She glances over at Tilly, who stands beside her wrapped in a bright yellow sweater. Her hair's pulled back but it still blows in the wind, pure chaos and red curls. If she snaps at all, Tilly will retreat, and she'll be alone again. If Philippa shows weakness, she'll try to stay. Some degree of fussing might be inevitable, depending on what Dr. Culber has given away.

Or Michael. Tilly has a mug in her hand, but she doesn't have her own food. Is that non-committal? Is she giving herself an excuse to leave if Philippa is difficult.

Sighing, Philippa points at the chair beside her. "Are you going to stay?"

"No, I mean, I can, but I won't if you don't want me to."

"You can stay."

Tilly takes the chair, and even through the scent of the ocean, Philippa can tell it's coffee in her mug. Strange how that is. The banana in her oatmeal has a sharpness to it, almost too sweet, and there's nothing else on it. No sugar, no spices: and she can tell that by scent alone. 

"I don't know why they made it so plain, do you want me to go back and change it?" Tilly asks, studying her oatmeal from the chair next to her. "Please don't throw it at me."

Philippa chuckles, setting down her tea and picking up her spoon. "My stomach's still a little off, they're fussing."

"You didn't just throw up in the ready room because you wanted to be distracting," Tilly says, staring at her coffee, then at the ocean. "Not that you could do that, I mean, maybe you can do that, you have so much control--"

"Not over that," Philippa says with regret. She certainly can't stop herself from throwing up. The first bite isn't bad, really. It's nothing. Plain oatmeal always has a way of tasting grey, neither pleasant nor unpleasant. 

Tilly leans forward in her chair, her voice full of admiration that sounds more genuine than it ever did coming from the Tilly she knew. "But you're usually in complete control. No one moves like you."

"Michael can," Philippa says, smiling. Michael snapping Osyraa's neck, with a move she taught her, will be a pleasant memory to carry for years to come. Pride rests warm in her chest. 

Tilly nods. "She said she killed Osyraa."

Philippa forces herself to take another bite, trying the banana with a frown. "She did."

"I haven't--" Tilly stops, looking at her coffee, then taking a gulp. "I don't know if I could do that." 

"Kill someone?"

Tilly turns in her chair, looking at her with wide eyes. "Yeah." 

"It's not easy, or fun."

Tilly tilts her head, there's that fear in her eyes, but she's intrigued. There's hope in her. "I thought you'd say it was fun."

"Power is fun." Philippa reminds herself that the banana will just turn to mush if she chews it. She can just swallow it. This is only eating, it's easy, even if it feels absolutely foreign, like she's never had oatmeal before. "Killing is often necessary to preserve your position, even here."

"We try to avoid it."

"Look what that got us." Leaving Zareh alive meant giving him a chance to slouch on the bridge and threaten the crew, even hitting her in the face. It would have saved her so much time to kill him the first day they landed in this century. "We'd have been better off if we'd killed Zareh when we met him."

"I know, I'm really sorry he hit you, especially because it was about me. We just don't--"

"Maybe you should consider it." Philippa takes another bite and it's this one that reminds her why eating feels so strange. Her stomach has woken up enough to remember that it is in revolt, and she has to swallow, hard. She can keep this down. Setting the bowl down, she wraps her fingers around the cool wood of the chair's arms and focuses on the smell of the sea. 

"Are you okay?" Her Tilly would never ask that. No one in the empire would. 

Philippa shuts her eyes, letting the sun warm her face. "How do you want me to answer?"

Tilly giggles a little, nervous. "What?" 

"My arm's healed, so have my bruises and my blood pressure seems to be back from whatever horrible state it was in yesterday--"

"You got very pale, very fast." Tilly reaches over and touches her hand, which is quite brave of her. "And you're not cold today."

"I was yesterday?"

"Cold and sweaty. It wasn't good." 

Philippa chuckles, and that warms her chest. "That was nothing."

"You nearly passed out in my arms."

Philippa shrugs, keeping her eyes closed. "That's hardly unique."

Tilly chokes on her coffee. "You pass out often?"

It seems like lately she's never steady on her feet. "Must be a problem with this universe."

"But Dr. Culber said you're all right now. You've stabilized."

How does she know? Did she ask? Was she concerned? Do they have so little to do that they all sat around last night and talked about her? Philippa leans back. The sun's starting to have warmth to it and it feels incredible. Maybe this foolish rainforest has merits. 

"Someone should tell that to my stomach." Philippa takes a breath, focusing on the smell of salt and the sound of tropical birds: anything but the twisting in her stomach. 

Tilly moves and her chair creaks. Is she getting closer? "But you weren't nauseated before. Your hands were weird and Michael said your atoms were flying apart, but you weren't going to throw up, that's new."

"The cure must be worse than flying apart on the subatomic level." Philippa balls her hand into a fist, resting it on her stomach. Sometimes, she'd say it is. Painful death would have been much faster than weeks of this. 

"What was the cure?" 

Philippa lets her head roll to the side and she opens her eyes to stare at Tilly. "Why do you ask? Do you have someone else you need to save from molecular degradation?"

Tilly ignores her snapping, and that look on her face, she's figured it out. "You're really nauseated, like all the time, and you've complained about smelling things no one else can smell, even more than Stamets, and he always smells everything in his mushroom garden, like everything, so something's going on and I don't--" Tilly stops talking as if she's been stunned. There it is. "You're--"

"Very tired," Philippa answers, shutting her eyes in dismissal.

Tilly's feet whisper in the sand. Her chair creaks again and maybe she's leaving Philippa in peace. "And you were dizzy, and your blood pressure was too low."

"Are you practicing for your starfleet medical qualification or just boring me?" Philippa snaps. 

Tilly touches her shoulder, grabbing onto her. Philippa could swat her away, but she doesn't want to move that quickly. "Do your breasts hurt?"

"What?" How is that the question? Why? Philippa reaches up, touching Tilly's hand on her shoulder. Tilly goes tense instantly, like she's going to run, but she remains. 

"I didn't know you concerned yourself with my breasts."

"I don't, I mean, they're beautiful--"

Philippa tilts her head, smiling. "Go on."

"But they hurt right now, don't they?"

Philippa rolls her eyes, holding Tilly's soft wrist. She could snap the bones, pull her off her feet, even kill her in an instant. Tilly knows this, yet she hugged her, treated her injuries, even hovered in Sickbay yesterday until Dr. Culber sent her back to the bridge. 

Her breasts do ache, they're heavy on her chest, swollen and sore as if she bruised them taking back the ship. Philippa releases Tilly's wrist and sighs. "Well, are you going to say it or just stare?"

Tilly blinks, mouth opening and closing without words, she looks down, staring at her belly then her breasts, and Tilly might need to join Kovich's little fetishization club if she keeps staring like that. 

"Shit." Tilly sits back down fast, perching on the arm of her chair as if she's about to run, or fall. "Is it- are you okay?"

"Okay?" Philippa blinks, half-wondering if she can make Tilly vanish like a holo. How is she a real person? How can she be so different? 

"Happy, I guess? Can you be happy? Do you even think of it that way?"

Philippa won't dignify that by answering. Happy is such a _human_ thought. This mirror is so shallow and strange. "Happy is irrelevant."

Tilly nods, accepting that. "What do you feel? Do you like babies? Kids?"

"If I don't, I'll what, eat it?"

Tilly looks horrified for a moment, but recovers. Good girl. "You eat Kelpiens."

"Not as babies, too salty."

"Fuck." Tilly takes a moment, but not even thinking about eating Kelpiens is enough to stop her from prying. Her curiosity is impressive. "Wait, who did you--? Oh fuck, I didn't mean it like that."

"Whom did I--" Philippa corrects lazily. "You're talking about an object."

"An object?" 

"Using the word that way makes Captain Pike the object of the sentence. I had intercourse with him, so you'd use whom while you intrude into my life."

Tilly turns bright pink, her skin flushing upwards from her sweater as the color rushes over her face. "Oh he's very attractive, I didn't say that because he's like a Captain and it's not really good to lust after your commanding officers, but he's very hot. Nice hands."

Philippa can't listen to her without smiling. This Tilly is such a strange creature. "I'm so glad you approve."

Still perched on the arm of her chair instead of sitting properly, Tilly fidgets with her coffee. "Wait, did you just call Captain Pike a sex object?"

Philippa rolls her eyes, contemplating her breakfast again. "Don't you need to eat?"

"What? Yes, I--" Tilly stumbles into the words, looking down again, sorrow painting her face as she's dismissed. She wants to stay. 

"Go get your breakfast," Philippa says, sitting up and forcing herself to concentrate on eating.

"You're sending me away."

Philippa sighs, so much like her Killy after all, looking for her mother in anyone who isn't about to kill her. "I didn't say you couldn't come back."

"I can?" She smiles, lighting up like the sunrise. 

"Go get your food."

"And you'll tell me about Captain Pike?" It's a brave question. Why is she intrigued by sex when Michael flushes at the mention of it? 

Taking a bite, Philippa swallows slowly. "He's very good with his hands."

"I knew it, he has great hands," Tilly says, quick and proud. Then she stops, pressing her lips together. "Not that I was thinking about it, or looking, I mean, I'll go get breakfast now." 

Philippa rolls her eyes and forces herself to eat another bite while Tilly is gone. Might as well throw up while she's alone, and she glares at her food while no one's here to see her. Fortunately, for the first time in the three days of this unintended experience, she does not. 

Tilly returns with her own oatmeal, with blueberries and banana. Unlike Philippa, she gets sugar and cinnamon. Of course, she can stomach it. She has this funny look on her face, shy, or relieved somehow. "I thought you would have gone."

Philippa takes another bite, licking her spoon. "Go where? Into the woods? The sea?"

Tilly sits down, getting comfortable in her chair. "Do you swim?"

Philippa raises her eyebrows, making a sound in the back of her throat. "I grew up in Malaysia."

"Beaches," Tilly repeats, smiling. "You know, Michael talks about that. Georgiou took her, Captain Georgiou I mean--"

"I know."

"Right, of course you do." Tilly looks down, chastised. She's used to that, being wrong and deferring. Someone's told her she's wrong often. Must have been the mother who was never around. Killy's mother was mostly absent, and terrible, here it was similar, though probably less violent. 

Philippa lets her blanket fall from her shoulders a little as it warms up. Changing the subject back to Pike should bring that spark back into Tilly's eyes. "Pike went to the Academy while the other Georgiou was legendary, and apparently they went to a few parties together but never got to know each other intimately."

"So they didn't--" It's funny how Tilly flushes pink when she starts to ask the question but asks anyway. 

Philippa shrugs. Her counterpart didn't enjoy many options that were available to her. "No, what a waste."

Tilly giggles a little, almost not nervous. "What's he like in your universe, Pike I mean, did you and that one--" she trails off again. She really needs to learn to be able to finish a thought about sex without this embarassment. It did take Philippa some time to cure Killy of it, so she'll have to be patient. 

"He was a captain, and I had many of them, he was competent." Philippa doesn't remember anything else about that Captain Pike. He wasn't involved in Lorca's rebellion, so he may have been loyal. She'll never know. 

"Competent sounds like a compliment."

Philippa smiles over her tea. "Making it alive to captain a starship is a feat, staying alive means you have some skill."

"And I did, over there?" Tilly looks down at her food, her face falling again. "More than I do here."

Why does Tilly's sorrow bother her? Philippa dwants to tell herself she doesn't care, but she does and she needs to work with that. What she feels about this Tilly belongs to her, as Michael said. "We took the ship back," she reminds her, more gently. "Osyraa is dead, the Emerald Chain collapsed, you helped with those victories." 

"We lost _Discovery_ while I was the captain." Tilly looks up at her, seeking something. Absolution? Punishment? 

Philippa sets her breakfast down. That's as much of it as she can handle eating for the moment. "I lost a whole empire. Perhaps we both should have died a glorious death."

Tilly looks at her half-finished oatmeal with an almost maternal concern but she says nothing about that. "But you don't believe that." 

Philippa chuckles a little, looking out at the beautiful constructed sea. "I enjoy living." 

"Do you like living in this universe?" 

That's a very loaded question, and she ponders the answer with the taste of tea in her mouth. "It has its moments."

"Because Michael's here? Or because you can have 'fun' with people the way you did Captain Pike?" 

Philippa lifts her tea towards Tilly, mildly impressed at her bravery. "There's definitely more of that kind of fun here." 

Tilly keeps her eyes down, staring at the sand. "So did you have a lot of fun? Besides Pike and the Orions and--" 

Brave kitten. "With Captain Pike or with your fairly uptight fellow Starfleet officers?"

"They're not all uptight, so I hear, anyway." Tilly insists with a hint of a smile, so there's hope for her. "I know a few who were fun."

"Not behind closed doors, certainly." Pike was quite pleasant company, in a gentlemanly, caring sort of way that she's entirely unaccustomed to. "He was a fast learner, your Captain Pike, a very willing student."

"Oh?" Her eyes meet Philippa's, wide and intrigued. 

Philippa nods, toying with her hair. She's let it get so long here. "It takes time to teach a lover what you want from them, how your body responds, and he was more open to that than most." 

"And you just do that?" Tilly says. "I mean, of course you do, everyone has too, but you just do it, without feeling awkward about it or that you're being pushy or not explaining it, because you never feel like you're doing that, because you're you."

She turns, meeting Tilly's admiring smile with a softer smile of her own. Philippa's not sure how she should respond to that tangled mess of words, and it takes her moment to think. "It's easier with practice, and experience. Captain Pike would have been beneath my station in my universe, and it would have been foolish for me to indulge my curiosity. Here, everyone's so accessible."

"Because you're not emperor or because someone like Captain Pike isn't going to try to kill you?"

"The latter does take some of the edge away from having a good time."

Tilly's mortified look returns, but only for a moment before she smiles. "I'm sure there are other ways to find an edge."

That earns a smirk. She'd forgotten how much she enjoyed talking to her Killy and listening to her exploits, and this Tilly has potential, much more than she realizes. "Perhaps so." 

They sit in silence for a time, listening to the sea and the jungle, but whatever's on Tilly's mind is dancing around her head like a phaser beam breaking against the shields and eventually she has to ask. 

"Did you think you would get pregnant?"

Philippa raises her eyebrows and scoffs. "Of course not." 

"You know, Starfleet contraceptives are extremely effective, the chances of them failing when used correctly are--"

Philippa holds up a hand to stop her. "Don't tell me."

"Sorry." That apology at least is more amused than anxious. "So it was a surprise."

That doesn't need a reply, surely. Philippa just stares at her, keeping her expression neutral and waiting for Tilly to answer her own question. Folding her blanket over her arm, Philippa leans down to pick up her bowl, but Tilly grabs it first. 

"Of course, it was a surprise, that would be a really big surprise, sorry, I've got it."

Gratitude isn't really something in her vocabulary, so Philippa nods, letting Tilly serve her. They walk towards the house together, Tilly a few steps behind. When they reach the wooden porch, Tilly runs up beside her and takes the blanket and her empty mug.

"Don't go in."

"What?"

"Gen and Bryce were cooking and they love hot sauce and smokey bacon things and they and I know you don't like smells right now and they really--"

Philippa touches her shoulder. "You can stop."

Tilly looks at her hand as if she's been knighted and smiles. "I'll get you more tea. That's what you want, right?"

Her Killy talked less, but this one tries so hard. She nods, touching her forehead and hoping it's just a hint of a headache, not a real one.

"Stay here, wait here, I mean, I'm not giving you an order or anything--"

Philippa shuts her eyes, then takes a breath. "It's fine."

"Right. Sorry."

Folding her arms over her chest, Philippa turns her back to the house, watching the sun over the trees. Some of them she's sure she recognizes from Earth. Is this jungle a recreation of somewhere there or a mixture of plants that grow well in space? Are the birds real or more of the programmable matter? Her thoughts wander into how such a thing would be engineered and how complex the water and soil filtration must be and the power requirements must be immense--

"Do you want to walk?" Tilly appears like she's transported in at her side, holding Philippa's tea and more coffee for herself. 

It takes a moment for Philippa to translate her meaning. Walk with her down the beach, answering all her questions about everything because she won't keep her thoughts to herself now. Philippa's opened those floodgates. She studies her, weighing spending the morning alone or in relentless conversation, and the latter will at least be much more distracting.

Tilly, of course, takes the silence as an invitation to keep talking. "We- you- did a lot of fighting yesterday and that makes me really sore if I don't move around the day after, probably because I'm not really a fighter the way you are and Michael, because I guess she fights a lot more than she did, because it's so much fighty-er here in this time than it was before we left and of course you're good at it so maybe you don't get sore the same way but I bet everything's worse right now with the--" She glances down and then catches herself. "It might be good, is what I'm trying to say, with way too many words." 

Everyone will have their eyes on Philippa's stomach for months now, won't they? How long will it take for novelty to wear off? She aches, of course, but she won't mention that. "You want me to come with you?"

Tilly studies her, starts to speak, and then swallows her natural impulses with a very bright smile. "Yes."

It's the most succinct invitation she's ever received from Tilly, and Philippa smiles and accepts her tea. She waves to the beach. "All right, lead on." 


	8. moments

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While on shore leave, Hugh and Michael talk about guilt and her promotion, Philippa has a nightmare about her Michael.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> took awhile, thanks for your patience. Some descriptions of nausea towards the end.

_ Hugh _

__ It's late afternoon, and the air's hot and heavy. Adira's off with the bridge crew, diving for lobsters. He's not sure how many they'll get, but Owosekun knows what she's doing, and they can also replicate them if they all come back empty handed. It's good for Adira to spend some time with the rest of the crew, get to know them too. 

Paul's helping with the spore drive project, no doubt arguing with Auriello, the former Emerald Chain propulsion scientist, and Reno, who loves to argue with him. Keeps him on his toes though, so he's probably loving every moment of it. He's been avoiding Michael, which hasn't been hard because she's been away with Book, doing the kind of fresh relationship things Paul and Hugh used to do. They'll find a way to work this out, eventually, right now Paul's angry and hurt and that takes him a long time to process. Sometimes longer than most people. 

"Hey," he says gently, drawing Michael's attention across the room.

Michael glances up from her book, an honest to goodness paper book, because she's a sweet luddite that way sometimes. She doesn't move, because Georgiou's asleep on her lap. 

"Is she still asleep?" he whispers, almost mouthing the words. She needs all the sleep she can get, and everyone else is gone so their shared house is quiet, for once. 

Of course, house is too simple of a word for their shore leave living quarters. The central structure has their living space, dining area and a huge kitchen, with replicators, of course, but also the simple things, like a stove and cooking tools. Hugh hasn't seen a set of knives since the last time he was on a starbase. It's fantastic that they have the option here. 

Their sleeping quarters are more spread out, with bedrooms upstairs and little cabins deeper into the woods or down the beach. There are plenty of places to be alone, if anyone wants that, but their crew sticks together. There's deep trauma they're all dealing with in their own ways, and so much loss just beneath the surface that keeps coming out. 

Owosekun cried over breakfast because it reminded her of her family cooking together. Detmer stayed up late drinking with Rhys and Bryce, talking about all the people they left behind. Hugh left people, family, but Paul's here, Adira and Grey, so his family is in this new present. It's easier for him, and Hugh has death to compare it too as well. He's already lost everything, so he appreciates what he has easier than most. 

Michael must know that feeling too. She spent a year without them, and she built a new life, even let them go. It took time for her to accept having them back, and she was so close to losing Georgiou, again, that there's still pain in her eyes when Georgiou's not aware of it. 

"She doesn't appreciate your taste in books?" He whispers, offering Michael more coffee. 

"She commented on the absurdist nature of the poetry, but eventually decided she didn't hate it enough to leave," Michael jokes, accepting the coffee. "It doesn't take much to make her fall asleep."

"At this stage, considering what she's been through lately--" he trails off, trying to avoid that guilty look on Michael's face. "She's fine."

"She got beat to hell helping me retake the ship."

"It's her home too, don't be so hard on yourself. She'd be pissed if you'd taken it back without her." He sits on the chair across from them, opening up his PADD from his communicator to search through the latest news he's been able to collect about Andorian opera. "When the ship's repaired, can we swing by Andor, for a night, maybe two?"

Michael chuckles over her book. "I'll see what I can do."

"I think you'd like it."

She tilts the book down for a moment, her hand hovering over Georgiou's shoulder. Both of them are out of uniform, wearing colors. Michael in red and Georgiou in blue. He didn't know Georgiou even had clothing that wasn't black or gold, and he'll have to keep teasing her about it when she's awake. 

"I've never been to the opera," Michael says thoughtfully, "But I'm not against trying new things. Sarek spoke fondly of operas on Andor and Earth, but I think Amanda liked them more."

"Oh?" Sarek's diplomatic credentials would have gotten him into the most exquisite shows, not that Hugh's jealous. 

"The sorrow, the joy of them, mattered more to her. Sarek found them aesthetically pleasing. He'd comment on how well constructed the libretto was or how well the costumes went with the sets." Michael sets her book down beside her, resting her hand on Georgiou's shoulder. That gentle touch doesn't wake her, and this is the second time he's seen her asleep today. 

Michael tilts her head, looking at the woman in her lap. "This is normal?"

"Oh yeah, first trimester's hell. The whole body gets made over to support fetal growth and blood volume has to increase." He taps his PADD, showing Micheal a holographic diagram of the forming placenta. "The placenta forms, binds itself into the circulatory system and starts filtering nutrients, which means mom has to eat more exactly when she doesn't want to eat anything."

"Already?"

He nods. "Second trimester might be less exhausting, but it's impossible to tell. The whole journey is improbable, physically demanding and unpredictable. They're already a tenacious child."

Michael's little smile is so soft that it makes his eyes sting. She's so happy. "They are?"

He smiles. "I'm not giving anything away until mom says she wants to know, or doesn't. Biological sex just leads to the social construct of gender anyway."

"A little social construct might feel more real." Michael thinks for a moment, her hand toying with Georgiou's hair. "Mom might see them as less of a parasite."

"Medically, she's not far off," he teases, watching Michael. She has so much gentleness. "The chorionic villi from the placenta erode through the maternal endothelium, nothing else really does that without being considered a highly invasive parasite."

Michael raises an eyebrow. "Sure, enable her."

"We all cope with change in our own way. Everyone here would struggle with suddenly being seven weeks pregnant."

Michael nods, eyes wide. "I would absolutely lose my mind and probably kill someone."

"A charming courier with a lovely feline companion?" Hugh teases. "I can see you as a mom, someday, when you're ready." 

There's a softness in Michael's face, a kind of wistful longing that makes him wonder if someday will be sooner than he thought. "You can get in some practice with the imperial baby."

Michael smiles again, and nods. "I'm sure I will."

Hugh tilts his head, studying her expression. There's a sorrow in her eyes he hasn't placed yet. "What?"

"I let her get tortured," Michael says, fidgeting with a lock of Georgiou's hair. "And shot, and beaten."

"Yes, you allowed all of these things to happen, and you exploded Paul into space, let your bridge crew pass out from hypoxia, let the away team get radiation poisoning, not to mention killing all entire innocent crew of Osyraa's ship when you blew up the  _ Viridian _ ." 

Michael's expression grows more exasperated as he keeps talking, so he knows he's found what she needs to talk about. 

"The responsibilities of the galaxy aren't all yours, and even rising to captain won't make that so." Hugh smiles, then reaches for Michael's shoulder. "I don't think you can make her do anything she doesn't want to do."

"No, no, of course not, I just- I keep losing her."

He squeezes her shoulder, wishing he could take away some of the guilt. "Right now everything looks great, for both of them, especially considering everything they've been through." Everything is an understatement, but this is the first child he has seen with DNA from two universes who started to exist in an alternate timeline. The fact that both of them are healthy and relatively stable is a miracle, but he is a formerly dead man so perhaps  _ Discovery _ was a ship where miracles happen. 

"We do lose the people we love," he says, "Sometimes we lose them over and over. It's awful. It is fucking terrible, because life is. And it's beautiful." 

Michael fights tears, and she reaches up, touching his hand. "Thanks."

"Just doing my duty as the scion of the mess hall." 

Smiling through her tears, Michael looks down. "Did she say that?"

"Oh yeah." Hugh smiles warmly. "We have our moments together."

"So I've heard."

"It'll be fun." He leans back, hands in his lap. Michael tilts her head at the idea that it's fun, and he chuckles. "I haven't gotten to do obstetrics in years, and we'll find a way to help you adapt."

"Me?" 

"Oh yeah, older siblings always struggle to adapt, even when they're the gracious captain of a starship."

That finally makes her laugh a little and she nods. "I'll keep working on it."

* * *

_ Philippa _

Her sword slices through her stomach, Michael's hands wrapped around the golden hilt. 

"This is my empire," Michael sneers, her eyes wreathed in gold. Malice and hatred glow on her face. Once her daughter loved her. Does she still, or is that a weakness she had to cut out? Michael killing her was always supposed to be her glorious end, but it's too soon. She's not ready. 

The nightmare provides agony and the warmth of blood. She clutches the sword in her belly, desperate, but not surprised. Michael's never had the patience to rule beside her or wait. Philippa knew, but she didn't want to believe. She hoped--

Foolishly. Sentimental and soft, now she bleeds for it. 

Gasping, she wakes, tense as dilithium, trembling and brittle. Phlippa sits up, inhaling as her eyes focus blurrily on her surroundings. She's in the brightly colored house in the jungle, staring at Michael on the sofa beside her, out of uniform. Her hands reach desperately for the sword, clutching air, then they fall to her stomach. It's flat beneath her hands, intact, not bleeding. 

Touching her stomach muscles through the thin blue fabric of her shirt, Philippa tries to slow her breath. 

Michael stares at her, braids falling down, her expression soft and gentle. "It's all right." 

Dr. Culber stands over them, watching with a similar expression of concern. He nods, hands at his sides, without the sneer of the doctor she knew. 

Pushing off from the sofa, Philippa backs away from them both, clumsy on shaky legs. Her heart pounds in her chest, blood rushing in her ears, ready to fight, but there's nothing. Her daughter is dead. She tries to force her panic down, but it won't retreat back into the dark. It won't leave her and she can't defeat it. Her tongue sticks to the roof of her mouth, tasting of metal. 

"Is she all right? Is it something from Osyraa's device?" Michael asks, looking to Dr. Culber for a moment, eyes wide and worried. 

What is she talking about? She was stabbed, she's dying of that not-- No, impossibly she's not bleeding. She's not on the  _ Charon. _ It's too warm, too humid and the air smells like flowers. This is a living place, not her palace. 

"I'm just scanning you." Dr. Culber says. His tricorder probe blinks in his hand, but that's not a weapon. 

Michael's face is unadorned: no makeup, no smirk. They're both maddeningly gentle, as if she's afraid. She's not, nightmares are for children. This is nothing, even though her muscles are tense and ready. Her head aches with the same lingering pain. It hurt before she fell asleep. 

"It was a dream," Michael says, taking a step closer, hands up and open. There's no tension in her arms, no coiled fury. She's still in a way her Michael could never be. 

Philippa was dreaming of fury. This soft place where birds sing in the trees and insects hum is dreamlike, but this is real, now. Her Michael is gone and she can't hurt the little parasite. 

"She's fine," Dr. Culber reports, relief warm in his voice. He holds up the tricorder, then sets it on the coffee table and backs away. "No signs of any neural degradation. You're all right, other than an elevated heart rate. Take some deep breaths and it'll slow." 

Michael reaches for her, taking a step, then another. Philippa could catch her arm, break her wrist, or run, but Michael comes closer. One hand touches her shoulder, then pulls her in, hugging her tight. She stiffens, resisting, but her Michael would never embrace her. Only Tilly dared, then Michael, hugging is from this universe, strange and soft and maddening. 

This warmth is unique to here and now. Michael holds her, refusing to let her go. It's encompassing, overwhelming. Michael's arms wrap around her and her breath catches. She twists, and Michael holds her, strong and steady. Philippa held her daughter like this when she was a frightened child, now she's the one trembling. 

Something's wet on her neck, not blood, but tears. That doesn't make sense. There's no reason... Her panic evaporates. Michael's upset, Michael's clinging to her like she's dying again. Her fear fades, succumbing to curiosity, and her own concern. She touches Michael's face, then sighs, burying her worry in annoyance. "Why are you crying?" 

Michael releases her a little, taking a step back, but her hands remain on Philippa's arms. "You're okay."

She scoffs. rolling her eyes Osyraa's little device was hardly as painful as an agonizer. One of her hands lies awkwardly on Michael's arm. She doesn't know what to do with her fingers, and she holds her. Her other hand is still on her belly, and she should let it go. It's just a parasite, after all, but she can't. "Of course I am."

"I--" Michael starts, then stops, taking a breath. She smiles, shaking her head. "I thought, Osyraa, that device of hers did something..." 

Philippa straightens, taking a breath, forcing it to be slow, if still uneven. "It was just a dream."

"I'm sorry," Michael says, then touches her face. "It must have been intense."

Rolling her eyes has no effect on Michael anymore. 

"It was nothing." Philippa releases her grip on Michael's arm, letting her hand fall to her side. She doesn't love this parasite. She won't ruin it by caring too much. Lying to herself is as hollow as lying to Michael. She shuts her eyes, blinks, rubs the tears away before they become a problem. She keeps her tone light. "Michael killed me."

"That's not a new dream."

"No."

"I'm going to make tea," Dr. Culber says, packing up his tricorder and touching Michael's shoulder. 

"It's too hot for tea," Philippa calls after him. 

"It's never too hot for tea," he replies over his shoulder, and he's right, so she lets him leave. 

Michael looks down, smiling at Philippa's hand on her belly. "Are you getting attached?"

She pulls her hand away, balling it into a fist, then forcing herself to relax her fingers. "What? No, it's an annoyance."

"Of course," Michael says, all sarcastic and smug.

She begins protesting that she doesn't care, or snapping that Michael's wrong. She's not human, not soft, but she's not Terran either. Saru said that inside Carl's little universe; she can't get it out of her head. Part of her is Terran, but eventually it's just going to be her eyes, the rest of her will belong here. 

Her heart slows, finally, leaving her lightheaded. Philippa shakes her head, trying to dry her eyes before the tears win. "I did not ask to come here, or stay here. You kidnapped me and then you begged Carl to let me stay."

"And it was one of the best things to ever happen to you." For once there's no doubt in Michael's voice, no hesitation or apology. "Both times." 

"A second chance?" Such a ridiculous idea. 

"Third, fourth..." Michael squeezes her fingers. "You've made a difference here, you've saved us, saved the galaxy."

"You're all too soft. You need me." If they're going to go jumping across the galaxy with a spore drive, they need someone who understands the way this place can be harsh and dangerous. Someone needs to remind Michael to keep weapons on the bridge. 

"I do," Michael says, smiling. "We do." 

"Michael--"

"I think I need them too." Michael glances down at her belly, smiling too freely. Joy lights her eyes. "This is hope."

Philippa shakes her head, swallowing because now that the adrenaline's fading, her nausea's back. Michael's excitement has no selfishness, no edge. She's radiant with it, and it's as intense as her fear was moments ago. Philippa's stomach twists. She has no context for this, no reply, no countermeasures. "You try it next time."

"I would love to." Michael's smile turns wistful, and patient, but there's a longing in her expression that aches a little to look at. "Think I have to give the ship my energy first, but someday."

It would be easier just to be angry, or fight the fear of the dream, because it's left her drained; she's shaky. She slept, she ate, she's done everything right and her body's still not hers. Philippa has to swallow, suddenly aware of her stomach again. "So since I'm not captain of a starship, you think this is a good thing?"

Michael shrugs, still grinning. . "You don't hate it."

Philippa takes a step closer to Michael, ready to argue, but she has nothing left to summon. Her stomach raises into her throat, chest tightening, and giving in to her nausea it will distract Michael away from prying at her feelings. Sinking into the sofa, she sits back down. "I hate the side effects."

Michael takes cups of tea from Dr. Culber, setting them on the coffee table. She whispers something to him and he disappears again. She sits on the table beside the tea, resting her hands on Philippa's knees. "Dr. Culber can give you something for the nausea."

She stares down at Michael's hands and the wood floor beyond. "No, that's worse."

"The medication's worse than being sick?"

Michael doesn't understand. She probably can't. "Of course it is," Philippa says, looking up. "It makes everything slow and gives me a headache."

"All right, no medication," Michael says, reaching for her hair. She starts braiding it, pulling it out of the way. She hums a little as she does it, fingers moving without thought. 

Philippa looks up into her eyes. "The last time you braided my hair, you thought I was going to throw up."

"Maybe this time I'm just fidgety," Michael says. There's that expectant, smug gentleness in her tone. She won't say it, and it is practical, but frustrating. 

"I thought taking a nap would help."

"It can."

"And eating."

"Did you eat?"

"No, but it doesn't make it easier." 

Michael blows across her tea then hands it to her. "Here, it's ginger, it might."

Or burn when she throws it up. Philippa takes a very slow breath, trying to concentrate on the spicy scent of the tea in Michael's hands. She could take it, but she's not sure if she'll be able to hold onto it long. 

Michael's watching, patient as always. She sets the tea down, moving from where she sat on the table to the sofa, as if clearing the path to the bathroom. She thinks she knows, of course, and part of Philippa wants to prove her wrong, but not enough that she'll risk throwing up on the floor to do it. 

Nothing really settles her stomach, even though everyone claims to have a try for it. Toast or crackers or plain rice or-- she can't think about food, even being annoyed about food makes her stomach jump. 

Michael's cool fingertips touch her hairline, wiping away sweat. Maybe she should trip over her on her way up, throw up on her for being so unbearably right. That thought makes her smile. 

"What?" Michael asks, tilting her head.

Philippa rolls the edge of her shirt in her fingers, trying to ignore everything but the feel of the silk. She has to swallow again. "I thought of something amusing."

"Hold onto that," Michael suggests. It's so easy to be full of good ideas when your stomach is still. 

"I will." As long as she can. 


	9. hiking

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tilly, Michael, Keyla, Joann and Philippa go hiking on the rainforest ship _Maathai_. Lots of talking about feelings and leadership and laughing and shore leave.
> 
> Also, Keyla just doesn't get it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: mentions of nausea. 
> 
> Also mud and skinny dipping! Many thanks to Maria and Sha for helping me with this chapter. You're both invaluable. This chapter got really long, which was fun. There were a lot of small things to say.

_Tilly_

Owo tosses her a backpack, and that's it, they're going off into the woods, hiking. First it was her and Owo and Keyla, and then they convinced her to go, and they talked about it at dinner last night and Georgiou, of all people, seriously, she's the last person Tilly thought would ever want to go hiking, decided she wanted to go, and then Michael. 

"Do you want one of us to carry your bag, Captain?" Keyla teases, nudging Michael's shoulder.

"Oh you just try and keep up, Detmer." Michael takes off ahead and they're around the corner into the green trees in a moment. 

Owo smiles, she's much less competitive, and tilts her head towards the path. "There's no rush, they'll tire themselves out eventually."

"As children do?" Georgiou says lightly, not quite smiling but not annoyed either. That's something. 

"Exactly," Owo agrees. "We'll find them when they hit something hard to climb, or muddy."

"Muddy?" Tilly says. Of course it's muddy, it's a rainforest and it must get meters of rainfall every Earth year. She glances down at her boots. They should be all right. Starfleet boots are usually good on most terrain but she really hasn't been hiking in awhile, other than that trip with Saru on the hex planet with the ice right after they got here.

"Afraid of a little mud, Red?" Georgiou teases, but it's like, nice teasing and Tilly really doesn't know what to do with that. 

"Not afraid really I just--" Tilly stops. Say less. "I'm good. Are you good?"

Georgiou tilts her head, her smile growing. "What are you going to do if I say no?"

"What?"

"When you ask if I'm 'good' like that the answer you're looking for is that I say something affirmative, but you really have no idea what to do if I don't."

Tilly blinks. "I never thought about it that way."

"Why would you?" Georgiou points at the path, waiting for Tilly to take a step. "Everyone knows they're just supposed to say that they're 'good'."

"Vulcans wouldn't."

Georgiou nods at that, Her dark hair is wrapped around her head in a crown, and of course on her it looks like a crown. Tilly's own hair would never sit that nicely and is already starting to try to escape from the bun she pulled it into. 

"You should think about it."

"Think about the answers I want to my questions?"

"Ask questions where you're open to any answer, that makes your crew more honest with you." 

Tilly walks beside her in silence, thinking about that until it clicks. "Because they don't feel like I want them to say something, I'm not making a right answer." 

"Junior officers want to be right."

"Well, of course," she says, jumping right in before it occurs to her that she is a junior officer and like, Georgiou's the most senior officer they have. Sort of. "I like being right."

"And if I know that I can get you to answer my questions however I want."

"Without even having to put me in an agonizer," Tilly says lightly. "Not that you would."

"Agonizers aren't for questioning people," Georgiou replies, studying the trees ahead. "They're for punishment. Torture is very ineffective at getting information. I thought Osyraa would know that."

Tilly fidgets with the straps of her backpack. "But she tortured you anyway."

"And I didn't even know how the path through the nebula, and Michael never would have told her, so really, it's no wonder Michael defeated her."

"We all did, didn't we?"

"Are we all getting promoted?" Georgiou asks, and it's almost mean, except, it's not. Tilly knows it's not. 

Which is weird.

"Can you be promoted?"

"No, of course not, and being an admiral is entirely boring."

"Admiral Cornwell didn't seem to think it was boring."

Georgiou ducks neatly around a vine hanging over the path, slipping around it so nothing touches her. Tilly would have walked right into it. 

"The interesting parts were when she was with us," Georgiou explains. 

"Right." Tilly hadn't thought about that. She knew Admiral Cornwell would have been very busy when she wasn't with them, probably visiting other starships or starbases, but there's a lot of paperwork, and when Georgiou says boring, that's what she means, right? "When you say boring, what do you mean?"

"That's a better question." Georgioui doesn't answer it, of course, she won't, not right away, but the praise makes Tilly smile before she can catch herself. "Was being a first officer all you thought it would be?"

"I don't know what I thought it would be, I mean, I did have an idea, I've studied it, I know all the protocol."

"That's not an answer." For a moment, Tilly feels like she's squirming on the end of a video call with her mother, but somehow Georgiou's tone is softer. 

"No, I know, yes that's not an answer." She doesn't have an answer yet, does she? She barely got to be first officer before the ship was a mess and they were fighting for their lives. 

Georgiou's hand touches her arm and Tilly freezes, forgetting to walk. Her hand doesn't hurt on her arm. "Knowing something isn't a substitute for doing it."

Owo's a few meters ahead of them, and Keyla and Michael are even further ahead. Tilly lowers her voice a little, just in case this is still a secret thing. "Is being pregnant like that? You knew about it, but knowing is nothing like what it's like?"

Georgiou stops walking as well and they stand there, staring at each other in the jungle. "So far it's like being ill," she says, crisp and dismissive. "Some kind of parasitic--"

"Infection, right," Tilly finishes for her. "That's not what you think."

"No, it's not," Georgiou agrees, releasing her arm and smiling almost pleasantly. "Good of you to figure that out." She looks down the path, and starts walking again, leaving Tilly to stare after her in surprise. Is she happy? Did Tilly actually do something right?

She can't ask, because that'll ruin the moment, but it feels like she did something that made Georgiou happy and her chest is suddenly warm like the sun. She has to almost jog to catch up even though Georgiou's stride is really kind of short. Tilly fights down her smile a little because she can't be too happy, but she is. It's a beautiful day. 

* * *

"Are the birds real?" Tilly asks when Owo slows to let her catch up. "I really want to scan them and check but I thought you might be able to tell."

"If they were programmed, I don't think I could tell. The technology behind this ship is better than anything I've seen." Owo tilts her head back, looking up at the canopy between them and the fake sky. The sun drifts down green and gold through the thick leaves. Enveloping them in a magic kind of light. "I'm glad they left out the mosquitoes.

"I haven't seen any flies either."

"Good," Owo says, chuckling. "Insects can get overwhelming.*

She can't remember if mosquitos or any of the biting flies actually play an important part of the ecosystem of a rainforest like this one. They must be able to work around it because they haven't seen any large animals either. 

"We used to hike sometimes during the wet season and the bugs would be so thick you'd cover your face and run through them, holding your breath." 

Tilly shudders. "I'm glad they left out that detail." The trees are real, because the _Maathai_ provides oxygen to the fleet, letting the ships in Starfleet headquarters recycle their entire atmospheres. Of course, they have roxygen recycling on board, but there's something fascinating about doing it this way, with actual trees. Some of the ships even have arboretums on board. Maybe Michael can think about that in the next refit because it would be pretty fantastic to have trees, they already have mushrooms so--

Tilly's boots squelch in the mud and she looks down the path. They're further from the ocean, and it's gotten much muddier as they walk. How long has it been since she walked through mud? Like real mud? Looking at her boots, she walks right into Georgiou, who isn't moving.

"Shit, sorry."

Georgiou's quiet, not making fun of her, or snapping at her for daring to walk into her and Tilly's panic that she's done something horribly wrong rises tight in her chest until she circles around in front of her, facing her.

Georgiou's staring straight ahead, not looking at her, just staring. 

Her forehead's furrowed, but she's annoyed, not worried. She bends, and fuck she's going to throw up. Tilly should have been paying more attention, be prepared. 

Miraculously, she doesn't throw up, though her body tenses and it hurts to listen to her gasp. Tilly reaches down, offering a hand back up to her feet. Georgiou's palm is sweaty against hers. 

Are you okay is the wrong question, she'll just get annoyed. Tilly bites her lip. "Do you need anything?"

Georgiou opens her eyes, meeting hers. She radiates annoyance but it's not at Tilly, directly so it's okay. "Like what?" 

Tilly runs through a mental list of everything she has in her backpack. "Water? Crackers? I think I have some rehydration salts--"

"I didn't even throw up yet."

Georgiou shakes her head, waving her off. "I'm fine. False alarm."

"Only yellow alert?" Tilly teases, and Georgiou glares at her enough that it almost stings, but for some reason it's less scary than it was a week ago. 

"You could say that." Georgiou touches her arm, and starts walking again. "It's inconsistent," she says, speaking ahead towards the path, not really to Tilly. 

"Michael seemed really worried yesterday, she didn't say anything, she wouldn't--."

"Michael--" Georgiou shakes her head, pausing to take out her water bottle. "Worries too much."

"She cares a lot, it's a nice thing about her."

"You never find it suffocating?" Georgiou asks, wiping sweat from her forehead. Is this too much for her? Are they wearing her out? Would she even say anything if they were? 

"It's nice to have someone pay attention to my feelings."

"Because your mother did not."

"Oh she did," Tilly corrects, blinking because she's not crying about this in a sweaty jungle nine hundred years too late. "She cared a lot about me not being good enough."

"She set high standards?"

"Impossible ones, and the wrong ones, she didn't like Starfleet, didn't like engineering--"

"That's not wise of her, engineering is very useful."

"Exactly!" Tilly reaches out without thinking, offering Georgou a hand over the little creek with the very muddy banks. Georgiou is way more graceful than she is and she doesn't need help, never wants it.

Her hand grabs Tilly's arm, strong and somehow comforting. There's no thank you, but that little nod does something to her chest. Are they getting along? 

"You still miss her." Georgiou studies the jungle, her face neutral, pleasant. Is she enjoying this? The scenery maybe? 

"Every day." 

"But you could have killed her?"

"Oh yes," she says without thinking. 

Georgiou smiles, really smiles and Tilly's face gets warm. 

"And no, I mean no, I wouldn't really kill her but sometimes--" Tilly shakes her head, a lock of her hair sticking to the sweat on her face before she tucks it back into the bun. "Sometimes it really felt like a good idea."

There's some wickedness in Georgiou's smile, but she's smiling, not wincing or scrunching her face up to throw up, so that's a win. They duck around one of the huge trees and find Keyla and Michael, sitting on a fallen tree, eating some yellow fruit. At least, it looks like fruit from the juice on Keyla's hands, and Tilly notices the spiky rind on the ground. 

"Owo found durians. They just grow here," Keyla says, holding some up. "They're really good."

Tilly takes a step forward and there's that smell, just like she remembered, pungent and nearly overpowering. "The Andorian delegation to Earth loved durians, they don't get a lot of the really big fruits, their planet is so cold and they even loved the smell, my mom had to tell them they couldn't ask for their hotel rooms to smell like it because it's too strong for humans."

"I could see that, Spock thought it was illogical that humans would cultivate something they found the scent of so revolting," Michael adds. She smiles at them but then her eyes shift, growing worried. 

Georgiou hangs back, and Tilly realizes way too late that this is a bad combination. Fresh durian smells bad enough that Tilly's been vaguely nauseated by it before and she is definitely not pregnant. She takes a step to the side, just in case Georgiou's about to throw up, but she doesn't, not immediately anyway. 

Tilly turns, and Georgiou has her hand firmly on her nose, pinching it closed while she breathes through her mouth. 

"You okay?" Michael asks, setting her fruit down and taking a cloth from her bag to wipe hands.

"I'm fine, keep eating." Georgiou's voice sounds funny with her 

Keyla looks from Michael to Georgiou, then at Tilly. She mouths "what am I missing?" without saying it aloud. 

Does she just say it? Should she mouth it? Tilly really doesn't want to do sign language. She could use morse code but she's kind of far away from the tree and--

"Sorry, I wasn't thinking."

Georgiou rolls her eyes. "Michael, there is no reason to this, you can't logic nausea."

"If you stay there you're upwind."

"You're fussing--" They continue to argue and Tilly crosses the little clearing over to Keyla. Closer to the fruit, it has that horrid reek like feet and socks, and is sweet at the same time. 

Keyla holds up a piece. "What is going on with them?"

"Georgiou's uh-" Is she allowed to say? Is it a secret? How the hell is she supposed to approach this? "Remember how she got sick on Discovery?"

"I thought that was a concussion."

"And how she doesn't eat breakfast with us?"

"She likes to walk by herself, I thought she just got up early or didn't like us--"

"She's been really nauseated in the mornings, and some of the afternoons, since uh, well uh since she didn't fly apart into molecules." 

"I thought she was better, Michael was so much less worried."

Tilly glances back at Georgiou. "She is better."

"But she gets sick in the morning?" Keyla takes another bite of a piece of yellow durian and shakes her head. "I don't understand."

Owo joins them, carrying papayas and some green fruits Tilly doesn't recognize. "This forest is incredible."

"You found less smelly fruit?"

"Yeah, guavas shouldn't be in season and papaya usually grows nowhere near durian but, it's a floating forest in the stars so the rules are a little different." Owo shrugs and smiles. "I think the forest might be designed to make it easy to find things to eat. No biting insects either." 

"We don't need to eat all of this--" Keyla says, distracted from trying to figure out what's going on with Georgiou by Owo returning with more food. 

"I wanted to get something she could eat," Owo says, tilting her head at Georgiou while she and Michael argue about something a few meters away. Georgiou still has her hand on her nose, and Michael points down the path, Georgiou insists again that she's fine, but she's pale again, which is a funny thing to think because she's wearing a white shirt, but she looks green somehow--

Keyla takes another bite and then stares at Owo. "Why can't she eat durian? Is it a terran thing?"

"It's not that she can't--" Tilly starts.

"It's just strong and she--" Owo adds. "Well, she can't smell it, I guess she could eat it if she could get past the smell."

Keyla looks at them both, and she doesn't get it. Of course she doesn't, it's way outside something she'd ever worry about. Tilly wouldn't either, really contraceptives are usually almost perfect. Mathematically it's pretty fair out there unless there's a universe crossing reason or something else. She wants to ask, but better to ask Culber later and not try Georgiou's patience. 

"Don't worry about it," Owo says, touching her shoulder. 

That doesn't mean Keyla won't, but she shrugs. "Okay, Georgiou doesn't eat durian. You know, the captain liked it."

"Yeah?"

"She put it on the table at a staff dinner once and she and Saru argued about it." Keyla smiles a little. "They argued a lot, I think she liked it. This Georgiou and Saru argue a lot too, don't they?"

Tilly sighs, looking up at the synthetic sky and hoping Saru is happy on Kaminar. "Different arguments." She shrugs. 

Owo slices into a guava, handing it over to her. "Here, you don't smell like durian, give this to Georgiou. You two can go ahead and we'll finish here and catch up."

Taking the fruit in her hand, Tilly nods. Sure, she'll just take the very nauseated, very grumpy former Emperor off into the woods by herself and they'll be fine. 

But they will, her non-anxious inner monologue says. They get along fine most of the time now, and Georgiou's really not that scary. Carrying the guava over towards Michael, Tilly tries to remember everything she knows about dealing with nausea. 

Michael stands back about a meter from Georgiou, just in case. 

Tilly clears her throat, drawing their attention. "Owo thinks we, uh Georgiou and I, should go ahead because I don't smell like durian."

Georgiou swallows, looking at the ground before nodding once. She's flushed now, kind of pink. Fuck. Does she have a fever? Is this whole thing really just hormones and nausea and fuck she's not having kids. What the hell. 

"Okay," Tilly says when Georgiou doesn't speak. Dammit. Dammit. She holds out her hand, which is dumb, Georgiou doesn't need to hold hands with her, but she takes it. Her fingers are warm and sweaty, even slippery. 

Michael almost stops them, reaching for Georgiou's arm but Georgiou shakes her head, stiff, almost violently. Michael must still smell like durian, because Georgiou can't get out of the clearing fast enough. 

They're past the three of other women, down the path. Georgiou is fast. Tilly knew she was, really fast, and Tilly has been working out, so she's not as out of breath as she would have been, but still. She couldn't really drag someone else through the trees if she was about to throw up. She'd probably just throw up, and complain about it. 

Down the path the woods just smells like woods again, with a hint of moss, maybe water? Tilly can hear a river when they stop. Georgiou releases her hand, holding a tree, eyes shut as she takes a breath, then another. 

"Can I do anything?" 

Shaking her head again, Georgiou doesn't get to snap at her. Instead she crouches down and throws up. 

* * *

_Philippa_

Rubbing the back of her mouth on her hand, she spits again, then rocks back on her heels. She could have left Tilly behind, thrown up on her own, but there's nothing to worry about with the kitten. Except maybe how much the kitten worries. 

Tilly kneels down next to her, knees in the mud. The mud's thick and dark here, sticking black to her fingers. It'll be all over Tilly's clothes. 

"Don't ask." Georgiou stares down at the vivid green undergrowth and the dark earth. It could be home, one of the thick forests of Malaysia. She shuts her eyes and allows herself to remember, anything to take her mind off her nausea. 

"Ask what?"

Philippa gulps once, then winces. "Whatever you're dying to."

Tilly sighs, then giggles a little, all nerves and tension. "I don't know what to say. I don't deal with sick people."

"Neither do I."

"Not even Michael? When she was little?" 

Philippa shuts her eyes. Her stomach twists, rising sharp in her throat, but she doesn't throw up again. Maybe it'll calm now. "She was sick several times, especially when I'd just adopted her."

"Oh?"

"She was scrawny thing; she had parasites." Thinking about that was a mistake, poor Michael was a miserable little one for awhile until they got her healthy, and Philippa has to stop the memory. Her Michael was such a little thing and she'd fought her way through a very difficult life before Philippa found her. 

"And you took care of her?"

Philippa scoffs. "She was my daughter, of course I did."

"I didn't picture-" Tilly pauses, touching her shoulder, and she doesn't hate it. Tilly's eyes are soft, and she's wistful again. "Mom let grandma take care of me. Once, I had to take care of my step-sister, and we don't get along, she's a lot younger, and she's pretty. She has- had, I guess, good hair and she was good at being diplomatic, which mom always wanted me to be."

The rambling helps. It's distracting. "And she got sick?" 

"She wasn't even that sick, but she was young and whiny, and I didn't know what I was doing."

Resting her hands on her thighs, Philippa takes the water bottle from Tilly and forces herself to take a sip. It's getting easier to recover from turning her stomach inside out, because it keeps happening, and it stings less. 

"I looked everything up," Tilly admits, looking at her fingers. "Every symptom, everything she thought might have been a symptom. I convinced both of us she had an incredibly rare Tellarite prion disease."

Philippa smirks, swishing the water through her mouth and spitting it out. Her tongue still feels fuzzy and her throat will burn for a while, but it's over for now. "Of course."

"As you might expect, she didn't actually." Tilly smiles back, wiping her muddy hands on her pants before she reaches into the backpack. Taking out a small towel, she passes it over. "You're all sweaty." 

Wiping sweat from her face, then daubing her mouth, Philippa tilts her head. "Did you tell Detmer I have an incredibly rare Tellarite prion disease?" 

"I didn't know what to tell her," Tilly says, fidget with the backpack in her lap. "Owo knows, because Owo's really smart about things. She probably knew last week--"

"My Owosekun would have known within a day, so that doesn't surprise me."

Tilly gets to her feet, offering her hands to help her up. "Your Owo was with you, in your universe?"

"She was the captain of my honor guard." 

Eyes shining, Tilly beams. "She'd be good at that. I'd trust her." 

Taking Tilly's hands seems to surprise her, but she's steady, and stronger than Philippa expected. "She was loyal, and competent, as she is here." 

Tilly still has her hands and they stand awkwardly together, just for a moment. 

"I'm sorry," Tilly says, eyes cast downwards again. 

Philippa rubs her muddy hands on the towel then hands it back. Tilly's eyes are too soft when she looks up. She's so unguarded that talking to her is unnerving. Who walks around with so little protection? 

"For what now?" Philippa lets her tone sting a little, but it has no effect.

"You lost everyone you knew." 

She expected a comment about how terrible it is to be pregnant, or throwing up, not everyone she left behind. She was ready to be sarcastic, but it's gone. The barb evaporates on her tongue. Philippa looks down, steadying herself on the muddy track through the trees. Her chest aches, separate from all the chaos of hormones. She has lost everything, and yet not. "Haven't we all? At least I still have versions of you."

"You're stuck with all the softer, more annoying versions."

"Indeed."

Tilly smiles at that, and she leaves Philippa's emotions undisturbed for a time. Letting them talk about the _Discovery_ refit and the potential power requirements of the constructed sky overhead. Michael, Detmer and Owosekun catch up to them eventually, and it seems each of them is more covered with mud than the last. 

Michael touches her arm, then her back, and falls into step beside her, worrying with her proximity, while the clouds fill the sky and the mist grows heavier before turning to rain. Tilly has no restraint when it comes to concern, and perhaps Philippa's still a little flushed, because neither of them can stop reaching out to help her, or offering her water. Michael nearly takes her backpack, and Philippa's tempted to let her. 

Philippa doesn't want to admit that she's tired and walking on a very empty, angry stomach is exhausting. She could have remained behind. She could beam herself back, but she'll feel terrible no matter where she is. Here, she has distractions. Dr. Culber would make her talk about it and she'd rather not. 

Their backpacks are waterproof, so their spare clothes and food is dry. The rain's warm and pleasant enough on her face, but the path was a muddy, winding mess at the beginning of the day. and after the rain all their feet squelch and slide. 

Detmer falls first, and Owosekun nearly trips over her, laughing. The mud's thick and reddish, and there must be clay in the soil here. Philippa can't help wondering if they brought the earth from somewhere or if they replicated it all, why have different areas of soil if they weren't--

And she slips. The clay's slick, like ice, or a pool of fresh blood on marble, she nearly catches a tree, but her hands are wet. Hitting the ground doesn't hurt, because it's soft mud, but it's thick and wet. Michael tries to help, but they fall, as does Tilly a moment later. 

Owosekun laughs harder, and it blends into sounds of the rain and the birds, then Tilly and Michael join in and she's surrounded by laughter, covered in mud, bruised, exhausted, but not about to throw up. Would this be funny where Philippa came from? She'd never be with this assortment of women, not without at least two of them trying to kill her, but here, they help each other up, giggling about mud on faces and hands, holding each other up until the path is more even. 

There's mud in Tilly's hair, and on Michael's face, and Philippa doesn't laugh, it's not really funny, but she does smile, and the scent of clay and earth isn't terrible. Maybe she'll make it through the rest of the day without throwing up, and if she can avoid the creeping headache she keeps getting, it'll be an excellent day. 

The rain's over soon. Tilly, Detmer and Owosekun finally stop throwing mud at each other as the birds start to sing again. The sun rises high through the trees as the grey clouds clear. 

As they walk in the sun, the mud dries on all of them, crusty and flaking.It makes her skin tight and her clothes are a lost cause. Still, there's a strange camaraderie in it, and the four women with her keep laughing. 

They laughed when she knew them. They had moments of levity and joy, but this is different, lighter. The edges she's accustomed to are absent, so is the familiar bite of seeing Detmer and Michael stand together, or having to wonder when Michael and Tilly will finally face off for her approval. 

They eat papaya and guava with their lunch, sitting beside a river. Owosekun doesn't mention the durian and Michael's guilty look makes her think they left the rest of it behind somewhere, for her. She's accustomed to being accommodated out of fear, not consideration, and it sits strangely in her chest that this is the choice they've made. 

Their cabin's down at the mouth of the river, where it meets the synthetic sea. It's a few more hours worth of walking, and the dried mud on her clothes, on her skin, will annoy her by the time they get there. Philippa looks at the river, studying how deep it is, how fast the current flows. They stopped next to a waterfall, for the view, not to swim, but the pool beneath is deep and tempting. It's probably safe to swim, because everything else in this forest has been carefully constructed to be safe. It's Starfleet after all. 

Standing up, she removes her boots, then her socks, then pulls her shirt over her head. 

"What?" Michael asks.

"Oh that's smart," Owosekun says, removing her own boots. 

Tilly's bright pink and Detmer just stares, her mouth partially open. 

"What are you doing?"

"Getting the mud off," Philippa explains, peeling off her tank top, and her bra. 

Michael looks away, quickly, as if she's doing something untoward, and Philippa shakes her head as she removes her pants, and her underwear. The air's warm, even comfortable and washing off the mixture of sweat, mud and sap from her skin will be incredibly pleasant. 

She walks into the river, naked in the dappled sun, and Owosekun's just a moment behind her. The water swirls lazily around her legs, cool and clear. The bottom's mostly rocks, and fortunately not that slippery. It gets deep quickly and after a few more steps, she's up to her waist. 

"You don't know--" Michael starts, but the rest of her warning disappears as Philippa dives underneath the water. For all they know, the pool was constructed for swimming. Opening her eyes underwater, she doesn't see any huge rocks or hungry creatures. It's peaceful, like the rest of the forest. 

"It's wonderful," she says when she returns to the surface. Treading water, she grins at Owosekun as she walks in, sun gleaming on her skin. 

"Being clean is much nicer than being covered in mud," Owosekun promises the women still on the bank. "You can use your tricorder to check the water if you want." 

Tilly already has her badge working on it, and the holographic interface in front of her doesn't have any red, which probably means it's safe. Their technology is so predictable, a child could use it. 

A small, traitorous part of her mind supplies that her child will use it, but Philippa shoves that thought away. Her baths on the _Charon_ were deep and luxurious, but there's something about having enough water to just float that she loves. It's delicious, being cool and clean instead of sweaty and encrusted with mud. 

Detmer shrugs and stands up, removing her clothing as Owosekun splashes her from the water. The two of them together was not something she saw in her universe, they were on other sides and flirting like this, soft and laughing, was not something that happened. It's ridiculous, really, but happiness is frustratingly intoxicating. Detmer's half-soaked already when she rushes into the water, teasing Owosekun before she dives away. 

Owosekun disappears beneath the surface and it could be minutes before she rises again. 

"Dammit," Detmer yells. "That's cheating."

"Maybe you just need to learn to hold your breath," Tilly teases, removing her shirt with pink on her neck. On Earth they'd need sun protection, even deep in the shade of the trees, but the holographic sun won't burn them. 

Michael sits on the bank, watching them as Tilly strips off the last of her clothes. 

"This is going to make my hair a nightmare," Tilly says, walking in.

"We could cut it off," Detmer adds, splashing her.

The two of them dissolve into a splashing match and something brushes her foot. Philippa stares down, but there's not enough light, and Owosekun is hidden. She'd never tug her under, but Detmer is not so lucky, and vanishes.

Michael stands, ready to do something self-sacrificial and save her, but Detmer and Owosekun both emerge, laughing. 

"Oh you're dead."

"Not in the water."

"There are other places to murder you," Detmer teases.

Philippa swims back, deeper into the water, out of the fray. 

Their feet flash above the surface as they dive under, reaching for each other's feet and laughing as they try to escape. Michael eventually takes her boots off and wades in a little, but she's tentative. Not quite ready to remove everything. Was it Vulcan that made her this prudish or something she's just carried with her? 

"It's nice, Michael," Philippa says, as the other three forget about speaking.

"I'm sure it is."

Swimming over closer to Michael on the bank, Philippa remains in the water up to her shoulders. It's too pleasant to get out. 

"You don't swim, a fancy starfleet captain like you?"

"I can swim." Michael crosses her arms over her chest. 

Philippa puls the clips from her hair, shaking it out of the braid so it falls into the water. "Technically."

"What?"

"Technically, you can swim. If you have too, but you don't like it."

Michael raises an eyebrow, dangling her feet in water. "I don't hate it."

"Then join us." Philippa extends a hand towards her. "It is wonderful, and you can just order the children to behave." She smirks towards Detmer and Tilly, who seem to be trying to find Owosekun in the water. Which is probably far more difficult than they realize. "It's much better than being filthy." 

"I'm not--" Michael protests, then stops, looking at her hands, and clothes. "Fine."

"Do you want me to turn around?" 

Michael stares up, as if the sky can save her from this embarrassment. "No."

"Did you get a tattoo that you're not willing to show us?" Tilly jokes, flinging water towards Michael. "Maybe it matches Book's?"

"Very funny. He'd never- I'd--" Michael fidgets with her shirt, then shakes her head. She knows she's trapped. Michael removes her top, then her bra, shaking her head at them. "You don't need to watch."

"Keyla can't hold her breath long enough for you to get naked," Owosekun says.

"I bet I can."

"Michael dresses really slowly.," Tilly pipes up.

Philippa smirks at Michael. "I have noticed that."

"I'm thorough."

"You putter," Tilly corrects. She inhales, then exhales, readying herself to go under like Owosekun has been trying to teach them. "All right, ready?"

"Georgiou, you have to judge." 

Philippa nods idly. This competitive side of them she knows very well, but they will not be making each other bleed today. Owosekun will beat them both, easily, but if it amuses them. 

The other three disappear under the water, leaving Michael without an audience. Finally, she walks in, inhaling sharply as the water touches her thighs. 

"It's not cold."

"It is cold if you're not a reptile." 

Philoppa pulls her hand back, ready to splash Michael for the insult. 

Michael holds up her hands in surrender. "You're not a reptile."

Behind Philippa, someone breaks the surface gasping for breath and the other one follows. Without turning around, she listens to them catching their breath and smiles. "Tilly wanted it more."

Michael raises an eyebrow, amused. "How'd you know?"

"Owosekun would never lose to either of them and Tilly's more driven."

"I thought you said she was a kitten."

"Kittens can be very determined."

* * *

Philippa's fingers and toes are soft and pale by the time she leaves the pool. She was first in and almost the last out, standing on the bank, squeezing water from her hair while the warm air dries the water from her skin. Michael's wrapped in her towel, Tilly's fussing with her hair, Detmer lies on a rock in the sun like she has solar cells. 

Owosekun leaves the water last, standing beside her for a moment, her expression full of contentment. She sighs, smiling, and her gaze lingers on Philippa for a moment. There's something in her eyes, but she says nothing. She likes that about her in every universe. 

They all get dressed again, shaking mud from their clothes, grabbing less dirty things from their bags. Philippa pulls her tank top on over her bra and looks up just as Detmer's swallowing, hard, with her lips pressed together. 

Philippa glances down at her chest. Her breasts have been sore and stiff, and she didn't think much of how they fit into her tank top until now. Her own cleavage isn't something she spends much time thinking about. Her body is distracting, sure, but that look is new. 

"How do your breasts look that good in the Starfleet field bra?" Detemer asks with fearless pilot bluntness. It's better than just silently staring. "No one's breasts look that good in the field ops bra."

Tilly and Owosekun share a look and Michael's suddenly very interested in putting on her boots and Detmer looks at all of them before finding Philippa's eyes. "What? She knows her breasts are great."

"They are," Philippa agrees, studying them again with an approving smile. They're sore, however, and this is the beginning of a long, strange surrendering of her body. 

Tilly clears her throat, drawing Philippa's eyes. She tilts her head towards Detmer, asking her permission before she explains the secret to Philippa's breasts. Owosekun watches them, silently agreeing with Michael's smile. 

Philippa rolls her eyes. Clearly they have nothing else to talk about. How are their lives so dull? "Fine."

"What are you all-" Detmer complains, running her fingers through her hair to pull out the tangles. 

"Keyla's an only child," Owosekun says, as if that explains something.

"I wouldn't have made the connection," Michael admits, being diplomatic. 

"It's kind of obvious," Tilly teases, taking a sip of her water.

Detmer makes a frustrated little sound. "It's really not."

Owosekun thinks for a moment, then touches Detmer's shoulder. "There are many, many children in my family, and growing up, I was surrounded by babies, you did not, so."

"I know," Detmer says, touching Owosekun's hand on her shoulder. "I spent most of my life on starships, and they don't have babies."

Michael's smile grows slowly, taking over her whole face. "Keyla, now we will."

"What?"

"Discovery is having a baby."

"Starships don't--" Detmer stops, closing her mouth and then opening it again without a sound. "You're-" she looks at Michael, who tilts her head towards Philippa and Detmer's eyes go wide. "Fuck," she mutters without really saying it.

"Traditionally the response is congratulations." Philippa can't resist smirking a little towards Tilly. "Though with this crew it's involved much more swearing."


End file.
